


The Sacrament Of Flesh

by cuttooth, fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: BDSM, Background Lonely Eyes, Barebacking, Begging, Biting, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Choking, Come play, Cutting, Don't Try This At Home, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Felching, Fisting, Fuck Or Die, Impact Play, Jon & Martin are stupidly in love, M/M, Multi, Nipple Piercing, Peter's just there to have a good time, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Pollen, Slut Shaming, Some violent/cannibalistic imagery, Still actually a bit soft?, Tongue Piercing, Verbal Humiliation, a sexy Leitner made them do it, bad piercing aftercare, play piercing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-25 04:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20370484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Jon finds a Leitner in his office, and calls on Martin to help him read it. He knows they should be cautious, but there's no way such a lovely book could cause them any harm, is there?As it turns out, the effects are more intense than they could have imagined. Luckily for them, Peter has a way to help them out of their predicament.





	1. Stanza I

**Author's Note:**

> We started writing the kinks, and then we couldn't stop. This is _extremely_ PWP, so please pay heed to the tags.

Jon arrives at his office one morning to find a book on his desk, a slim volume bound in red leather. The color is unnervingly reminiscent of fresh blood. There is no title, nor cover image. It’s completely unremarkable, save for the way his heart races at the sight of it. 

Not every unmarked book is cursed, he tells himself. Someone probably left it there for him—Basira, perhaps, or Melanie. Neither of them wants to see him dead or dismembered. Probably. Even if they wanted to, a book would be a strange way to do it. They both seem to favor the direct approach when it comes to assassination attempts.

It won’t hurt to have a look. He runs his fingertips over the soft leather, and a shiver passes over him. The cover is warm and smooth, warmer than it has any right to be in the chill air of the archives. Warm as flesh, he thinks. He’s almost got the book open before he catches himself. 

He should call for the others, see if they know about the book. But it’s so lovely, the supple leather so smooth beneath his hand. It’s ridiculous to think that something so beautiful could harm him. He is the Archivist, after all; if this book has secrets, they rightfully belong to him. 

He gently thumbs open the book, revealing its contents. 

_ From the library of Jurgen Leitner. _

Perhaps he should have known, but he’s come this far without feeling any ill effects. He’s most likely immune, by now. No doubt Elias would be thrilled with his progress.

He flips to the title page and feels a rush of dismay. It’s something in Polish. He should be able to translate it without thinking, but no matter how hard he stares, the words remain stubbornly unknowable. He frowns for a moment, unsure of what to do. A dictionary would be too slow, and an online translator would butcher the text, if it worked at all. He does, however, know someone who speaks the language. 

_ Martin. _ The thought of him makes Jon’s chest ache. He promised Martin he would stay away, but this is important, he _ knows _ it is, knows it with the bone-deep certainty of Beholding. Martin can’t refuse him this, not when it’s for the Institute. Jon takes his mobile from his pocket and shoots off an urgent text, including a photo of the book’s vibrant red cover. Martin will surely see the importance of understanding it, of knowing all it has to offer. There’s a delay before Martin responds, but to Jon’s relief, he agrees to come.

Jon flips through the pages while he waits, breathing in the scent of aged paper. The text appears to be poetry, though the poems have no titles, only numbers. There are a handful of illustrations in the center. He examines them carefully. 

The first shows a figure kneeling in supplication, nude, with their head bowed. A fall of hair obscures their expression. Someone stands over them, face hidden in shadow, hand extended as they slip two fingers into the supplicant’s mouth. Something dark and wet drips from their lips.

The second depicts a pair of hands crossed at the wrists, bound with razor wire. The fingers are clawed, almost like a lover clutching sheets, even as beads of blood ooze from the torn skin. 

He flips further. Another illustration shows a man suspended from hooks overhead, spine arched in ecstasy. The next shows a woman consuming ragged chunks of meat with a beatific smile, gore smeared down her bare chest. Before he can turn the page, someone knocks on his office door. 

“Come in,” he says, irritated at being interrupted; the book is so lovely. The irritation disappears, however, as Martin enters. 

Somehow, even knowing Martin was coming did not prepare him. Martin’s face is as soft as he remembers, his hair the same reddish gold, though it’s grown longer since the last time Jon saw him. There’s a hint of stubble at his jaw, and the sight of it makes Jon’s mouth go dry. 

“Please tell me this is important, Jon,” Martin says with a grimace. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

It’s not what Jon hoped to hear, but he swallows and tries for a grateful smile. 

“It is,” he says hoarsely. “Thank you for coming.”

Martin’s expression softens. “Of course. You said something about a translation?”

Carefully, Jon lifts the book, holding it out to Martin with both hands. 

“Is this...something to do with the rituals?” Martin asks, eyeing the book apprehensively. He makes as if to touch the soft leather, then pulls his hand back, clenching it at his side. 

“I don’t think so,” Jon admits. 

Martin’s brow furrows. _ “Jon—” _

“I wouldn’t have brought you if it wasn’t important!” Jon snaps. “There’s something about this book...we need to know what’s in it. I can _ feel _it, calling to me.”

“Jon, I don’t—”

_ “Please, _ Martin,” Jon says urgently. “Just have a look.”

Jon opens the book to the title page, offering it to Martin again. Martin holds it with due reverence, his hands large but gentle, cradling the small volume between them. He frowns at the title, then flips to the first page, reading silently for a moment. His lips part, and his cheeks flush pink as he makes it down the page. 

“What is it?” Jon demands. 

“I—Jon, this is—” Martin swallows, hard. “I can’t—”

“I need to know,” Jon says forcefully. 

Martin gasps, and Jon realizes his words were laced with compulsion. Jon feels a twinge of guilt, but he supposes it’s worth it if he gets the answer he needs.

“Your lips taste of honey and deceit,” Martin reads. “I would have them beneath my feet, crushed and bruised; kissing my palms; nestled against m-my—Jon, please, I can’t—”

“Martin,” Jon says warningly. 

Martin’s cheeks flush a deeper pink, and he bites his lip before continuing. “N-nestled against my...my_ cunt.” _The word is shockingly crude on Martin’s tongue, in a way that makes Jon’s pulse race. “I, who have desired you for lifetimes, who will desire you for lifetimes more…”

Martin continues reading, and stops stumbling over the more graphic descriptions. Jon pays more attention to his face than the words, letting them wash over him in a stream of filth and obsession. As he watches, Martin’s breathing becomes shallow, his breath coming in short pants, and sweat begins to break out across his forehead. It’s too warm in here, Jon thinks, because he’s beginning to sweat as well. His skin feels too hot. He pulls at his collar, tempted to open the first buttons. 

He’s distracted by the sight of Martin squirming and shifting his weight. Looking down, he realizes Martin’s trousers are tented, just as Martin reaches to adjust himself, then stops, hands clenching by his sides.

“Martin...” Jon whispers. 

Martin stops reading and sets the book aside. Jon’s gaze flickers between his face and his crotch, licking his lips involuntarily. Martin makes a startled noise, low and vulnerable. 

“Jon, I think something’s wrong,” Martin says. His eyes are fever-bright as he looks at Jon, brow creased with worry. Jon thinks he must be right. He can feel something creeping under his skin, a hot, restless sensation that pools low in his stomach.

“Jon, please,” Martin says. “I need…

Jon falls to his knees in front of Martin, nuzzling his thigh. Martin’s hands grasp his hair, but he doesn’t try to force Jon to move, just holds him. Jon presses kisses to his thighs, his hips, before mouthing at his clothed erection. Some part of him knows this isn’t normal behavior, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world to kneel and take this sacrament. 

_ “Please,” _Martin whines, and Jon can’t deny him, not now, not ever. He shushes Martin, drawing his cock out and stroking it with gentle fingers. Martin makes a noise like he’s dying. 

“I’ve got you,” Jon promises, pressing kisses all along the length. Martin is bigger than Jon might have imagined, if he’d ever thought about it before, with a faint musky scent that makes his mouth water. He’s already dripping precome. Jon laps at the clear droplets, and Martin whimpers before Jon finally takes him into his mouth. 

He fills Jon’s mouth perfectly. Jon has to stretch his lips to contain him, and the velvety skin slides sweetly against his tongue. He wants it in his throat, between his thighs, buried in his arse; but most of all, he wants to taste Martin’s come. His tongue traces the underside of Martin’s cock as he lets it slide deeper into his mouth. It’s too big to take all at once, so he wraps one hand around the base, leaving the other to cradle his balls. 

“Jon, Jon, _ Jon—” _ Martin whispers, and his name is a benediction, a prayer, a plea for mercy. 

Jon moans low in his throat, hastening the movements of his lips and tongue. Martin’s hips buck against his face, but he doesn’t mind, could never mind, not when Martin is giving him everything he’s ever wanted. Jon wonders if it’s possible to come just from the feeling of Martin in his mouth, and shifts restlessly, pleasurably. 

“Jon, I’m going to—”

_ Yes, _Jon thinks, and sucks greedily, taking Martin into his throat as deep as he will go. Martin tugs his hair hard, pulling Jon’s mouth even farther onto his cock, until he comes with a low cry. Jon swallows gratefully, even as his eyes water. 

Afterwards Martin collapses on the narrow, uncomfortable couch, pulling Jon with him. Jon kisses his eyelids and his cheeks and his soft pink mouth. He’s so hard he’s dizzy with it, but he doesn’t want to stop kissing Martin, beautiful Martin, who’s finally given himself to Jon, as he should have done all along. 

“I...I need _ more,” _ Martin says, biting his lip. “Your mouth felt so good, but I need—I don’t know…” 

“Tell me what you need,” Jon orders, kissing Martin’s throat. Martin gasps and throws his head back, offering himself, and Jon follows with his teeth, biting and sucking bruises into the soft skin. 

“L-let me suck you off,” Martin begs. “Please, Jon. I want it so badly...”

Jon’s cock twitches at the words, and he reaches down to push his clothing out of the way. Martin slides to his knees and sucks it into his mouth without ceremony. 

_ “Fuck,” _ Jon breathes, because Martin’s mouth is hot and perfect on his cock, his tongue silky-sweet and clever. Jon’s hands tangle in Martin’s hair, grasping the soft curls, and Martin moans loudly around his cock. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Jon whispers. “I never want to stop. I should keep you here, on your knees—” 

Martin takes him down to the root, swallowing gently, and Jon loses his words completely, reduced to grunts and sighs and whimpers. His eyes slide shut, and he loses himself in the feeling of Martin’s mouth, his lips, his tongue, his throat. He can feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening in anticipation, and he knows Martin can feel it too. He’s about to gasp out a warning when he hears the door swing open. 

“My, my,” Peter Lukas says, smirking. “What have we here?”

Martin keeps sucking him, seemingly oblivious to Peter’s presence. Jon’s face grows hot with shame, even as his cock jerks. He instinctively tries to push Martin away, to cover himself, but it’s too late; he’s already coming, painting Martin’s face with pearly strings of semen, coating his lips and cheeks. Martin moans and nuzzles the tip of Jon’s spent cock, smearing come all over his face. 

“Martin, I thought I could expect professional behavior from _ you, _at least,” Peter admonishes. 

Martin gasps, seeming to hear Peter for the first time, and his eyes go wide with horror. He turns to face Peter, his face spattered with Jon’s come. The sight sends a possessive thrill through Jon. 

“I—I didn’t mean—”

Martin licks his lips, shuddering as he tastes Jon’s come. Jon has never seen anything more viscerally erotic, even spoiled as it is by Peter’s intrusion. 

He can’t help himself, he leans forward and kisses Martin’s face, flushed and sticky, tastes himself on Martin’s skin and licks a long stripe up Martin’s cheek. Martin moans, and Jon gasps as his cock twitches, tender and sore. 

“I came down to see what was so important you had to pull my assistant away from his work,” Peter says cheerfully. “But If you’re busy, I can leave.” 

Peter wanders over to the desk and picks up the discarded book. He flips through the pages, frowning a little. Jon knows he should get up, should order Peter to leave, should at the very least stop lapping at Martin’s mouth, Martin’s tongue twining with his, but he can’t stop himself. He slides his arms around Martin’s shoulders and pulls him back up onto the sofa, feeling Martin’s erection pressed hard against his thigh.

“My, this _ is _ interesting,” he hears Peter say from very far away. “The Sacrament of Flesh. I’ve heard about this one. Looks like you two have got yourselves in a bit of trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Jon demands, pulling himself up and trying to rearrange his clothing at the same time Martin asks:

“Peter, what is it?”

Hearing that name in Martin’s mouth raises hot jealousy in Jon’s chest. He finds himself curling around Martin protectively, as Peter smirks down at them both. 

“You seem to have it well in hand,” he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I wouldn’t want to interfere. You’ll figure it out.”

“What. Do you _ mean?” _ Jon snarls, letting the compulsion fall from his lips. Peter gives a faint shiver. 

“Elias was right about that,” he says, sounding amused. “It _ does _ tingle.” 

He reaches past Jon and strokes a large hand over Martin’s hair, fondly, as if he were a pet. Martin’s eyes flutter closed and his head pushes against Peter’s hand, a soft moan parting his lips. His hips roll, his cock sliding against Jon’s thigh. Jon sucks in a hard breath. He needs to stop this. But he realizes, as Peter’s fingers push into Martin’s curls, twisting them around his fingers, making Martin groan, that there is something _ here, _ some knowledge right on the edge of his awareness, and if he can just _ see… _

Peter’s fingers tighten and he yanks hard on Martin’s hair, dragging his head back so Jon can see the curve of his throat, the marks Jon sucked into the skin only minutes ago. Martin whimpers and thrusts against Jon’s leg. Peter chuckles softly, runs his other hand down the curve of Martin’s cheek, then pulls back and slaps him sharply, still holding him by the hair. Martin cries out in ecstasy, and his cock spills hot across Jon’s thigh. Jon’s face is burning with anger and, he realizes, renewed arousal, and he Knows now what this is. 

“He needs more than gentle caresses,” Peter says, tugging at Martin’s hair so his eyes glaze. “And so do you, Jon, if you’re going to get through this. Lucky for both of you I came along, eh?”

“God, Peter.” Martin’s clearly trying to sound stern, but the effect is ruined by the way he’s panting, his eyelids fluttering. “Can’t you just give a straight answer for once?”

“The book,” says Jon. “It’s a manifestation of the Flesh. It’s about—carnal desire, but...more than that. _ Violent _ desire. Sadomasochism. It—it drives desire in those who hear its words. In us, but...just sex isn’t enough. It has to be—” He breaks off, his tongue tied with shameful lust at the thought.

“Rough,” Peter finishes for him, his eyes gleaming with delight. “Brutal, even. It has to _ hurt. _ And I don’t think either of you know how to do that for the other, do you?”

Martin looks back and forth between the two of them, wide eyed. His left cheek is still flushed red where Peter slapped him, and Jon can’t stop staring at it. He reaches up a trembling hand to touch the mark, and Martin leans into his touch. The skin is hot and tender under Jon’s fingers, and something in him wants to lay his own mark over it, raise beautiful bruises on Martin’s skin and hear him gasp in painful pleasure. The rest of him flinches from the thought, and much as it sickens him, he has to admit that Peter is right.

“What are you proposing?” Jon asks stiffly. Peter grins. 

“You make it sound so formal, Jon. I’m _ proposing _ that you both come to my place, where I have a range of lovely equipment that’s ideal for this situation, and you let me fuck that nasty book out of your systems. I also have a lot of experience, and while I know you can take a lot of punishment, poor Martin here is only human.” He turns to Martin with a predatory smile, stroking his hair again. “I promise, Martin, I can hurt you as much as you need, without any lingering effects. You’ll keep begging for more, but I’ll know when you’ve had enough. I’ll take care of you.”

Martin flushes and Jon can feel his cock already starting to twitch with renewed interest, still pressed into Jon’s leg. He bites back the snarl that rises in his throat, because god help them, they need Peter. Jon has no experience with this sort of thing, and while some part of him thrills at the idea of hurting Martin, of _ being _ hurt by him, he’s terrified that he wouldn’t know when to stop. _ How _ to stop. Peter might be a monster, but he seems to have a vested interest in Martin. Jon doesn’t think Peter would truly harm him, not in this way at least. And as for Jon, well, as Peter said—he can take a lot of punishment.

“What do you get out of the deal?” he grits through clenched teeth, trying not to moan as Martin shifts against him. He is painfully hard again, and trying desperately to ignore it and keep a clear head. Peter laughs out loud at that.

“Other than two lovely young men in my bed, pleading for my attention, you mean? I suppose you could owe me a favor, Archivist. How does that sound?”

It sounds like a fairytale bargain with a wicked witch, if Jon’s honest, but he doesn’t think he has another option. They can’t risk Peter changing his mind; Jon doesn’t Know precisely what will happen if they don’t purge themselves of the book’s influence, but he has the feeling it wouldn’t be good. 

“Fine.”

“Wonderful. Martin? You game?”

“We, uh, we don’t really have much choice, do we?” Martin sounds equal parts nervous and excited. 

“Lovely!” Peter claps his hands together with finality. “I’ll call a car, then. You two don’t look in much of a state for the tube.” 

Jon looks down at himself, his trousers unfastened and pulled askew, Martin’s semen drying on them, his cock tenting out his pants and forming a damp spot. No, not in much state for the tube. He’ll be lucky if they can get out of the building without utter humiliation. 

* * *

Jon _ tries _to maintain his composure, he really does. 

He fails miserably. 

The stairwell to the first floor is blessedly empty. He and Martin keep as far away from each other as possible, with Peter trailing behind them, and the distance physically pains him. Each breath, each glimpse from the corner of his eye, makes a fresh wave of desire wash over him. He can tell Martin feels the same, from the way his hands are curled into tight fists. Peter is whistling cheerfully to himself, apparently having a _ marvelous _time. 

It’s when they enter the foyer that Jon loses control. 

A researcher is passing by with a large cart of books, and Martin crosses the hallway to stay out of her path. Martin’s hand brushes Jon’s, and the need strikes Jon like a jolt of electricity, and before he knows what’s happening, he has Martin pressed against the wall, pulling him down for a fierce kiss. Martin’s teeth sink into his lower lip, and someone growls low in his throat. Jon is shocked to realize the sound is his own. His thigh slips between Martin’s, brushing against his erection, and Martin reaches down to squeeze his arse firmly. Jon is so hard he can barely breathe. 

Peter clears his throat loudly, and Jon pulls back, breathing hard. He feels the weight of half a dozen pairs of eyes on his back, and the shiver that runs up his spine is equal parts arousal and shame. 

“S-sorry,” he whispers to Martin, pulling away. Martin makes a soft, wounded sound, and Jon fights the urge to kiss the pout off his face. 

“Soon, boys,” Peter promises cheerfully. “Very soon.” 

Jon studiously avoids eye contact as they leave the Institute, trying not to hear the whispers that follow them. What they must think of him, of Martin, of the three of them leaving together with that filthy smirk on Peter’s face. His cheeks grow hot just thinking about it. 

He barely sees the large, black car Peter ushers them into. The moment they’re inside, he’s climbing into Martin’s lap with a sigh of relief, straddling his thighs and claiming his mouth in a biting kiss. Martin thrusts up against him, and Jon is only slightly ashamed of the high whine that comes from him. 

“I didn’t give you permission to do that,” Peter says sternly. 

“I don’t recall asking for it,” Jon says, rolling his eyes. 

For such a large man, Peter moves shockingly fast; Jon has no time to prepare before Peter seizes a handful of his hair and pulls hard. The reaction is instant: Jon’s cock stiffens painfully, and he moans deep in his throat. It’s humiliating, and he can do absolutely nothing to stop his reaction. 

“What about _ you, _ Martin? Can you be a good boy for me?”

Martin is staring at them raptly, lips parted. He nods fervently. 

Peter reaches with his free hand to cup Martin’s cheek, a pleased smile on his face. Jon fights down a wave of jealousy, the voice inside him screaming that Martin is _ his. _

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

“Need someone inside me,” Martin murmurs, leaning into the touch. _ “Please_, Peter.”

Peter chuckles. “I’d be a monster to turn down that request, wouldn’t I?” He turns to Jon. “I’ll let you prepare him with that smart little mouth of yours.” 

The thought of Martin squirming under his tongue makes Jon’s heart race, and he quickly climbs out of Martin’s lap to help him out of his trousers. There’s a shocking amount of room on the leather seat, and Martin ends up draped face down over Peter’s lap, with Jon behind him. The sight of his plump, curved arse cheeks makes Jon’s mouth water, and he squeezes with both hands. Martin moans softly, thrusting against Peter’s lap. 

“What a lovely arse you have,” Peter murmurs approvingly. “Made for being fucked. Spread it for me, Jon. Let me see exactly what I’m getting.” 

Jon wants to argue, but not as much as he wants to get his mouth on Martin, so he obeys, prying open the cheeks to reveal the rosy pink furl of his arsehole. 

Peter reaches down, testing the tight muscle with his thumb. Martin groans, hips pushing up against him, before Peter withdraws with a teasing chuckle. 

“Patience, my dear.” He nods to Jon. “What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

Jon leans down to nuzzle the soft flesh of Martin’s thighs. He kisses and bites his way up to Martin’s hole, relishing the soft noises Martin makes. He circles the muscle with his tongue until it’s fully wet, then dips the tip of his tongue inside. Martin’s reaction is immediate: with a low groan, he thrusts down into Peter’s lap, then up against Jon’s face. Jon pins him with a harsh grip on his hips, and Martin whimpers. 

“You’re making quite a mess of my trousers, love,” Peter says, stroking Martin’s hair. “If you can’t control yourself, I’m going to have to make you clean it up with that sweet little mouth of yours.” 

Martin gasps, biting down on his lip, and Jon pictures it: Martin knelt down in front of Peter, licking his come off Peter’s trousers. He’s not sure if he’s more envious or aroused. His cock twitches in his trousers, and he laps at Martin’s hole to distract himself. The tight muscle gives way under his tongue, and he moans against Martin’s skin.

“God, Jon, please…” Martin begs, struggling against Jon’s restraining hands. Jon feels a flash of fierce pride at the knowledge that he can reduce Martin so easily to pleading. He runs his hands over the lush curve of Martin’s cheeks before biting down hard. Martin makes a choked noise, but Jon has him pinned there against Peter’s lap, and there’s nothing to stop him from lapping at the bruised flesh, from scraping his nails down Martin’s thighs. He returns his attention to Martin’s hole, running his tongue along the rim before slipping back inside. 

Martin’s moans grow louder, more desperate as Jon works him open with his tongue. Jon’s cock is throbbing, and he can’t help but rock his hips against the leather seat. He licks his way up Martin’s cleft, then down to the tender skin of his perineum, giving it a soft kiss before sinking his teeth in. Martin’s entire body stiffens under Jon, and he comes with a low shout, soiling Peter’s tailored trousers. 

Peter tsks at Martin. He twists his fingers in Martin’s hair and pulls hard, forcing him to look up at Peter’s face. Martin whimpers, squirming in Peter’s lap. 

“What did I tell you?”

“Th-that you’d...make me clean it up,” Martin pants. 

“That’s right!” Peter says brightly, rewarding Martin with a smile. “Now on your knees.” 

Peter yanks Martin’s hair brutally, and Martin scrambles off the seat until he’s kneeling in front of Peter. Jon watches, fascinated, as Peter guides Martin’s face into his lap. Martin laps at his come with a grateful sigh, delicate little licks that make Jon’s mouth go dry. 

“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, petting Martin’s disheveled hair. “Isn’t he, Jon?”

Martin looks up at him with hopeful eyes, and Jon is helpless to do anything but rasp, “Yes.” Martin’s eyes close in pleasure, and he suckles the damp fabric until it’s clean. 

Jon can make out the outline of Peter’s cock in his pressed trousers. He’s not even properly hard yet, but it already looks enormous. He wonders how it would feel in his mouth, stretching his jaw, prodding at the wet muscle of his throat, and he swallows. Martin must be thinking the same thing, because he works his way up the inside of Peter’s thighs until he can nuzzle Peter’s erection. 

Before Martin can open his mouth again, Peter yanks him back by the hair and slaps him in the face. Martin moans loudly, eyes hazy as his cheek flushes pink. It’s the opposite cheek to last time, Jon notes. 

“Did I give you permission to suck my cock?”

“N-no, Peter,” Martin murmurs, breathing hard. Peter’s grip tightens in his hair. 

“Are you going to be good for me?” he demands. “Or are you going to be a greedy little slut?”

“I-I’ll be good!” Martin promises. 

Peter runs his thumb over Martin’s bottom lip, prying it open slightly. Martin laves it with his tongue, unable to resist, and Peter smirks. 

“You _ are _ a greedy little slut,” he says approvingly. “But if you’re _ very _good for me, you’ll get your treat.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Martin says breathlessly. 

Peter fixes Jon with an appraising look, then turns back to Martin. 

“Your poor Archivist looks ready to expire. Why don’t you give him a hand?”

Martin nods, and shuffles on his knees to Jon. He looks wanton and ruined, naked from the waist down, his thighs spattered with his own come, still wearing a jumper with a disheveled shirt collar poking from beneath it. His face is flushed, freshly slapped, as he gazes up at Jon, and Jon strokes both hands over his cheeks, resisting the mounting urge to strike them, to break blood vessels and raise bruises. The thought makes him dizzy, and he clamps down on it.

“Jon…” Martin murmurs as he undoes his trousers and eases Jon's aching cock out. Jon groans as Martin bends over it, hot, wet mouth engulfing him. Whimpers as Martin's mouth is pulled away, teeth scraping his tender cock as Peter’s hand in Martin's hair drags him back viciously.

“No,” Peter says, firm but gentle, the way you might correct a dog. “I said you could give him a _ hand. _ Nothing about that filthy mouth of yours. Understood?”

Martin nods fractionally. There are tears of pain standing in his eyes but looking down Jon can see his cock is starting to harden again. 

“Go ahead, then.” Peter doesn't let go, keeps Martin's head pulled at a painful angle as Martin wraps his hand around Jon's cock, stroking it gently. Jon whines and pushes into the touch. He's been achingly hard since before they left the Institute, and Martin's fingers are so careful and soft.

“Please, Martin, harder,” he gasps. He sees Martin swallow, the bobbing of his throat very visible with his head pulled back, and he nods again. He tightens his grip on Jon's cock and strokes it harder, and it's almost tight enough to hurt. Jon moans.

“You have two hands,” Peter says helpfully, releasing Martin's hair and sitting back. “He could probably use some fingers in him as well, couldn't you, Jon?”

“Yes…” Jon nods frantically. He's too desperate to care anymore about dignity or self control. He just needs more. He lifts his hips as Martin tugs his trousers down, and splays his legs as wide as he can. All his awareness is focused from the head of his cock to his hole, with an intensity he's never experienced before. 

“I need something to use for lube,” Martin says, and Peter chuckles. 

“Jon can get your fingers wet with his mouth. That's enough for what he needs.”

“Jon?” Martin asks in a tone that's half a whimper. Jon doesn't bother to reply, just grasps Martin's hand and draws it to his mouth. Martin has large hands, and Jon draws three fingers into his mouth, hears Martin's soft intake of breath as Jon runs his tongue over and around them. Martin presses his fingers further in and Jon moans, saliva welling up in his mouth at the intrusion, starting to leak from the corners of his lips as Martin's fingers push in. He can't swallow, can only breathe shallowly as Martin’s fingers stroke the back of his tongue, so deep they're almost in his throat.

“That's enough,” Peter says, and Martin obediently withdraws his fingers. He slides them down behind Jon's balls, between his cheeks, probing. Jon tries to spread his legs further, tilts his hips up to encourage Martin as one finger presses against his hole. 

Jon had never much understood the appeal of this act, has tried it by himself on one or two occasions, but even with large quantities of lubricant has only ever found it mildly uncomfortable. Now, though, Martin's finger teasing open the tight muscle sends hot desire through him. Martin works his finger in as far as the knuckle, and it feels huge inside Jon, saliva not nearly enough to ease the passage. Martin crooks his finger, brushing at something in him that makes him moan, sensation shooting directly to his aching cock.

“Martin…please, more..._ harder,” _ Jon pants. Martin looks up at him, dazed with lust. Withdraws his finger and pushes in two this time, more forcefully. It hurts, _ burns _, and Jon whines, his cock throbbing with the sting of it. Martin's fingers begin moving, thrusting dry inside him, and his other hand closes around Jon’s cock again. Jon's hips buck up into his hand, push back against his fingers, desperate for more sensation. He almost cries with loss as Martin's fingers withdraw again, leaving him so empty.

“It's okay, Jon,” Martin tells him, and then three fingers push mercilessly inside him, filling him hot and hard as Martin's other hand squeezes his cock painfully. Jon’s vision goes white and he hears himself moaning as his cock spurts over Martin's fist, his arse clenching tight around Martin's fingers. He comes back to himself panting and sprawled, as Martin’s fingers ease out of him, leaving his flesh stretched and stinging. 

“There,” Peter is saying, sounding pleased. “This works beautifully if we all do our part.”

The rest of the journey seems to take forever, with Peter sitting between Jon and Martin to keep them separated. He’s got Martin pressed between his side and the car door, with Jon hunched at the other end of the seat in a way he doesn’t want to think of as sulking. 

At one point, Martin’s hand slips into Peter’s lap, groping for his cock, before Peter bats it away and pins Martin’s hands against the window, kissing him slowly and thoroughly. Jon stares at them, torn between fierce jealousy and desire, his face hot and his throat dry, licking his lips as his cock twitches painfully. Martin is making tiny, distressed noises against Peter’s mouth, squirming against him, and though his trousers are back on, Jon can see his erection tenting out again. Jon has no idea how he’s still getting hard—how either of them are. He can only assume it’s a symptom of the book, but he has no way to know if it will have any lasting ill effects.

At last, after an eternity, the car pulls into an underground garage. Jon spares a thought for the driver behind the dark glass partition, wondering if this is the oddest thing that’s happened in the back of Peter Lukas’ car. Peter reaches past Martin to open the door, and bundles him out, Jon trailing behind them. He is vibrating with energy, with _ want _, and he’s managed to keep it tamped down until now but he can’t much longer. It feels like a hot, hungry mouth gaping open inside his chest, like he wants to devour and be devoured, split and rend and merge until all flesh becomes one—

“It’s getting worse,” he says, hearing the tremor in his own voice. “We need to do something about this, _ now.” _

Peter turns, still hustling Martin ahead of him towards the lift, and gives Jon a smile with a lot of teeth. 

“Don’t worry, Archivist. That really isn’t your job right now.”

In the lift Jon can barely stand still, vibrating on his toes. He can feel the heat radiating off the other bodies in the tiny space, hear the sounds of their breathing, _ smell _ the arousal and the come staining their clothing. He clenches his fists until his nails dig into his palms. When he risks a glance at Martin, he catches him chewing on his lip viciously, his eyes wild and fevered. Martin’s eyes meet his and he whimpers quietly. Peter makes a soft shushing noise, altogether too gentle for him. 

“Nearly there,” he says cheerfully, as the chime sounds for the penthouse floor. 

Jon can’t escape the feeling that once they enter, there will be no turning back. 


	2. Stanza II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were overwhelmed by the response to the first chapter, thank you so much to everyone who read and commented! Please enjoy some more filthy, filthy porn with our gratitude.

Peter smiles to himself as he opens the door to the flat. He can feel the desperate longing rolling off both men in waves. Normally it's the sort of thing it would be his pleasure to ignore, lock them in separate rooms and leave them touch starved and needy for days. But this is a special circumstance. Peter delights in feeding his god, but he is also a man, and the scene spread out in the Archives was too delicious to resist.

Besides, Elias would be intolerable if Peter let his precious Archivist expire from sheer lust. And this way he gets to call in a favor later.

“Home sweet home,” Peter declares, watching both of them as they look around the flat, Martin wide-eyed, Jon suspicious. It’s a large, open plan space, impeccably decorated with sleek modern furnishings, quiet advertisements of wealth and taste without a single trace of warmth. Peter's considered bringing Martin to his home before, considered wowing him with luxury and then fucking him senseless, but right now he's rather pleased he's waited to get both of them in hand. He drops his keys on the dining table and claps his hands together brusquely.

“Well,” he says. “Let's get started. Clothes off and on your knees, both of you.”

He sees a shiver go through Martin at the instruction, as if something in him is anxious to obey, and he immediately begins tugging at his shirt. Jon resists a little, of course he does, obstinate as always beyond all sense or use, but eventually his fingers tremble on his collar and he starts to undress.

Side by side, they resemble nothing so much as a buffet spread out for Peter's delection. The two are a study in contrasts: Martin tall and broad-shouldered, with curling ginger-blonde hair and soft, lush curves; Jon smaller, dark-haired and dark-eyed, whippet-thin and covered in little scars. Both of them flushed and quivering, cocks desperately hard. Martin falls to his knees as soon as he’s naked, but Jon hesitates. 

Let it never be said that Peter doesn’t enjoy a challenge. Drawing himself to his full height, he looms over the Archivist, savoring the way the intimidation makes his cheeks flush and his breath quicken. 

“I said ‘on your knees,’ Jon. Were those instructions too complicated for you?” 

Jon glares at him from under a disheveled fall of hair. “I don’t see why—”

Without warning, Peter seizes Jon by the hair, hauling him upward and yanking until Jon moans and goes limp in his grasp. Peter releases him just as quickly, flinging Jon to the floor in a panting heap. 

“The door is behind you,” Peter tells him. “If you aren’t grateful for the _ enormous _favor I’m doing you, feel free to crawl right through it.” 

With an ungentle shove of his polished brogue, Peter rolls Jon onto his back, pressing his heel against Jon’s throat. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t struggle, just stares up at Peter in mute desperation. 

“Am I understood, Archivist?”

Jon nods as best he can with Peter’s foot against his neck. Peter pushes down harder, until Jon gasps. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, Peter!”

Tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes. Satisfied, Peter removes his shoe from Jon’s neck, allowing him to scramble to his knees. 

“We’ll talk about your punishment soon enough. First, we need to establish ground rules.” 

He pauses, taking in their reactions. Martin is watching him raptly, quivering with nervous tension. Peter knows the boy is terrified of making mistakes, of incurring his or Jon’s displeasure. Privately, he wonders how much of it is daddy issues and how much his natural submissive tendencies, but it doesn’t matter at the moment. Jon stares resolutely at the floor, teeth worrying his lower lip. 

“Rule one: you will do what I say—and _ only _ what I say—when I say it, with no complaining.” 

He smiles pleasantly, waiting for Jon to argue. When he doesn’t, Peter continues. 

“Rule two: I can touch you whenever and however I like. _ You _ will keep your hands to yourselves unless instructed. And _ off _yourselves, for that matter, Martin.”

Martin stops guiltily, his hand already halfway to his lap. He stows it under his thigh, fidgeting. 

“S-sorry, Peter.”

Peter spares Martin a fond pat on the head, which the boy leans into like a cat. 

“I know it’s difficult, being such a little slut,” Peter says sympathetically, and Martin whimpers and buries his face in Peter’s thigh. “I know you can be good for me, though, can’t you, Martin?” 

Martin nods, though Peter can tell it takes all his self-control not to beg for more. He steps away, giving Martin space to breathe and compose himself. 

“Rule three: I am going to hurt you. Quite badly, in fact.” A shudder runs through Jon’s slender frame, and Peter savors the waves of fear that roll off him, fear so mixed with arousal that it’s difficult to say where one ends and the other begins. Jon’s prick is flushed an angry red, and his entire frame tense as a coiled spring. “If you behave, I might even let you enjoy it. That’s the only way out of the mess you’ve gotten yourselves into, but I won’t force you to take it. If you decide it’s too much, your safe word is ‘Elias.’ ” 

Peter imagines his lover hearing that from his prison cell, and smirks. There’s no way Elias isn’t watching this with equal parts jealousy and greed, so hard he can’t stand it, but unwilling to let himself come until they’ve reached completion. Peter doesn’t have that problem. He’ll enjoy his sweet prizes as thoroughly and selfishly as he likes. 

“Of course,” he continues, “I’d hate to separate you, so I won’t. If one of you abstains, the other is going with you. Hopefully he survives the consequences.” 

Jon scowls but doesn’t argue. Martin simply licks his lips, awaiting further instruction. 

Peter allows them to crawl on their hands and knees to the bedroom. Jon’s breath is coming in short pants, so aroused he can barely move, and Martin keeps shooting him concerned looks, to Peter’s amusement. He directs them to kneel at the foot of the bed, then opens his trunk of goodies. 

For Martin, he selects a set of cuffs in butter-soft pink leather with matching collar, along with a set of clamps he’s been itching to try on his sweet assistant. Jon’s set is more solid, designed with an avatar in mind: stainless steel cuffs with a thick band around the throat, bound by a sturdy chain. The metal is engraved with a sweeping wave design, elegant and understated. He turns to Martin, collar in hand. 

“You’ve been very patient,” Peter praises, cupping Martin’s cheek just to watch him melt. He slides the collar around Martin’s soft throat and clasps it, sliding two fingers underneath to check the fit. “How would you like for Jon to suck you off?”

Martin inhales sharply, and nods so quickly he nearly risks whiplash. Peter gestures for him to sit on the bed so he can cuff his wrists and ankles. The dusky rose leather is perfect against his freckled skin. That just leaves the clamps. 

“Have you ever worn these before?” he asks, pinching them open. Martin shakes his head, as expected. “I think you’ll like them.” 

Peter brushes Martin’s nipple with his thumb, making him gasp and push his chest out, seeking more contact. He pinches lightly, and Martin moans. Peter never expected him to be so sensitive. He leans down to claim Martin’s mouth. 

Martin opens eagerly for him, groaning as Peter explores his mouth. Peter reaches with both hands to pinch Martin’s nipples, and the boy whimpers deliciously. Not for the first time, Peter considers keeping Martin Blackwood for himself. To hell with Elias's warnings about poaching his staff; Peter would love to keep the boy in his patron’s realm, bound and gagged and waiting for the next time Peter decided to make use of him. It's a delicious fantasy. He leans down to nip at Martin’s throat, then his neck, leaving a trail of sweet bruises until he reaches his stiff nipples and circles them with his tongue. Martin’s chest heaves under him, and his moans grow increasingly desperate until Peter bites down. 

The sound that comes from Martin is halfway between a scream and a sob. His cock jumps against his belly, leaking precome. Peter laves the abused flesh with his tongue before biting down harder. Martin whines high on his throat, thrashing against the bed as Peter moves to the other side. 

“What a filthy little slut you are,” Peter murmurs approvingly. “Do you let all your employers do this to you? I bet Elias could tell me some stories.”

“N-no!” Martin protests, shaking his head. "I would never--" His eyes are bright with tears, but he licks his lips, clearly excited at Peter’s words. 

Peter slides the clamps onto Martin’s sore nipples, making him shudder. They’ll hurt even more coming off, but Martin doesn’t know that yet. Peter kisses him lightly.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he praises. “Just a few moments longer, and you’ll have your reward.” 

Martin flushes, clearly unused to such compliments. Keeping him pleased is remarkably simple, unlike his stubborn Archivist. Peter turns to evaluate him. 

Jon’s eyes are glazed with need. His lips are bruised from his own teeth, and he’s covered in sweat. He's breathing raggedly, muscles so taut he trembles. He is staring resolutely at the floor, and Peter reaches down to grip his chin. He tilts Jon’s head up, smiling at the resistance he feels; he’ll allow it for now, just a little. Finally Jon’s eyes meet his, dark and still defiant. Peter is starting to understand what Elias sees in him, and he voices that opinion, delighting at how it makes Jon flush even darker red. 

“Such a sweet, vicious little thing,” he murmurs. Jon shivers but doesn’t resist as Peter slides the smooth metal collar around his throat. It has some weight to it, not enough to make movement difficult, but enough that he can see Jon adjusting to the discomfort, frowning. 

“Hands,” Peter instructs, then shakes his head as Jon lifts his hands in front. “No, I don’t think you need those for the moment. Behind you.” 

Peter crouches on one knee as Jon’s hands go behind his back. He really is a skinny thing, his shoulder blades winging out and his spine too visible. Elias needs to take better care of his avatars. He’s trembling, and Peter runs a gentling hand down his back, pleased at the soft sigh it draws. Jon might protest and spit fire, but he knows what he needs. Peter fastens the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, testing the give on the chains that connect them all, before standing up to admire his handiwork. Jon looks a picture, panting and trembling, his back arched and his cock achingly hard. 

“Lovely,” he declares. Then he picks Jon bodily up—the man weighs nearly nothing—and tosses him onto the bed, where Martin is watching with wide, greedy eyes. 

“Sit back against the headboard,” Peter instructs, and Martin shuffles up against the pillows, tucking his legs under him. Peter lifts Jon easily and arranges him as he wants him, on his knees with his arms pulled taut behind him, arse in the air and his face in Martin’s lap. Martin whimpers with Jon’s head pillowed on his thigh, his fingers clearly itching to touch. He restrains himself though, determined to obey the rules.

Peter cups his hands around Jon’s arse, squeezing the flesh. A bit bony, but not as much as the rest of him; there’s a decent handful to grab. The chain binding Jon’s wrists to his ankles lies right down the center of his arse crack, and Peter spreads the cheeks, presses the cold metal links against Jon’s hole and taint so he squirms. Peter chuckles, then turns to Martin.

“As punishment for Jon’s disobedience, we’re going to play a game. Jon’s going to suck your cock—you might need to help him get it in his mouth—and he’s going to get a spanking, to remind him of who’s in charge here.”

“Okay.” Martin swallows hard, looking like he might come just from hearing about this. Jon makes a small, choked sound but doesn’t say anything. He’s learning already.

“The only other thing is that I’ll need you to help me keep count, Martin. Up to twenty, so I’ll know when he’s had enough. Of course if you _ lose _ count, we’ll have to start again, so try not to get distracted. Now, go ahead and put your cock in his mouth, I know he’s keen to get on.” 

The sound Jon makes this time is close to a whimper, and Peter smiles, curving a hand over his arse, patting one cheek as Martin carefully maneuvers his member into Jon’s mouth, open and eager for it. Martin has a good sized cock, and Peter can see it stretching out Jon’s lips as Martin breathes slowly, shutting his eyes. Jon moans around his mouthful, his eyes almost rolling. Peter draws his hand back.

The first slap is light, barely more than a love tap. It makes a sharp sound against Jon’s left buttock and he grunts. Peter waits a moment, listening to the soft, wet sounds of Jon sucking Martin’s cock with tremendous enthusiasm. Martin’s eyes are still closed, seemingly lost to the sensation.

“Martin…?” he says reproachfully, and Martin’s eyes shoot open. He looks flustered, his cheeks red. 

“Right,” he pants, “S-sorry. Uh, one?”

“Let’s call that a practice,” says Peter, benevolent, and Martin nods. “Now, starting again?”

The next stroke is harder, the flat of Peter’s palm striking Jon’s flesh firmly. Jon groans. 

“One,” says Martin breathily. Peter smiles, and strikes down again on the same buttock. Jon flinches and makes a low whining sound, his mouth still stuffed with Martin’s cock.

“Two,” Martin gasps, his hips canting up into Jon’s throat. 

“Three,” he counts, as the skin starts to redden beneath Peter’s hand. He’s doing so well up to five, six, seven, as Jon whimpers and moans, his body twitching, his buttocks flushed so prettily. After he counts out eight, Peter decides to give him a challenge, and brings his hand down hard on Jon’s right cheek at the same time he tugs on the chain hanging between Martin’s nipples. Martin moans and Jon whines, a lovely chorus of sounds. 

“Ah—ah, eight,” Martin pants. Peter tuts, shaking his head. 

“That was nine, I’m afraid. We’ll have to start over. And my hand is beginning to get tired.”

“Oh god, Jon, sorry!” Martin’s upset, his hands petting over Jon’s hair. Jon doesn’t respond in any coherent way, just keeps swallowing around his cock. Peter can see saliva leaking from his mouth, slicking Martin’s cock and running down onto his thighs. A full body tremor runs through Jon at the sound of Peter unbuckling his belt, and he whines. 

“Peter, no—” Martin looks distraught, at least as much as he can with Jon frantically sucking him off. Peter gives him a stern look as he pulls the belt through its loops and folds it over.

“Rule one,” he says. “And rule three. Jon is free to use his safe word whenever he wants.”

Jon’s hands clench behind his back, and he pushes his abused arse up towards Peter. Peter fondles the hot, tender skin, feeling Jon tremble under his touch. 

“Good boy,” he says, and raises the belt. Jon flinches and groans under the first blow, which raises a bright stripe across his already reddened cheek. Martin flinches as well.

“One.”

The belt brings out beautiful reactions in Jon, his whole body flexing under the assault, sweating and shivering, and he is crying out around Martin’s cock. Martin keeps count valiantly as his eyelids flutter and his mouth falls open, until finally:

“Twelve, oh, god, I’m—” 

He thrusts desperately into Jon’s mouth and Peter enjoys the sound of Jon choking on Martin’s come, semen trickling from his lips as Martin moans, petting his hands over Jon’s hair and face. Martin starts to carefully shift Jon away from his spent prick.

“I didn’t tell him to stop sucking your cock,” Peter observes.

“But—Peter—” Martin looks at him pleadingly for an instant, then relents, shifting uncomfortably as Jon keeps suckling at his softening cock. The soft noises he makes are almost pained, and increasingly, deliciously distressed. Smiling, Peter rubs his thumb roughly over one of the welts on Jon’s arse and Jon moans. On an avatar, the marks would normally disappear within hours. From what Peter’s heard about _ The Sacrament of Flesh, _ however, these might linger deliciously for some time. When Peter glances down Jon’s cock is painfully flushed and hard, curving up between his thighs and belly, dripping pre-come that’s staining the sheets. 

By number fifteen, Jon is shaking and sobbing, sucking desperately, and Martin is whimpering and squirming in place as Jon’s tongue and teeth slide across his oversensitized flesh. He keeps count, though, his voice trembling and spots of color high in his cheeks, through eighteen, nineteen, until he breathes: _ “Twenty!” _with such relief that Peter almost feels sorry for him. 

“Thank you, Martin,” Peter tells him. “That was very helpful. And I think Jon’s learned his lesson, haven’t you?”

Jon whines and his hips thrust up, his arse striped and lovely. Peter smiles. How can he turn down such a sincere apology. 

“I knew you could be a good little slut too, Archivist.”

He slips one hand under Jon’s belly, grasping his throbbing cock and tugging at it hard. At the same time he bends down and bites Jon’s left cheek, directly over the deepest welt, loving the feel of the hot flesh against his face. He tastes blood as his teeth sink in, and Jon comes instantly, his cock jerking in Peter’s hand, his whole body spasming as he sobs around Martin’s dick.

It takes Jon a long time to recover, and what a pretty picture he makes: eyes glazed, drool and come leaking from his mouth where it’s stretched around Martin’s soft cock. He couldn’t move if he wanted to, bound as he is, with his tight little arse still raised for Peter’s perusal. Peter looks forward to _ ruining _him, but first, a reward is in order. He turns to reach into the cabinet beside the bed, quickly finding what he needs: a shining metal hook with a softly rounded end. 

Smiling, he approaches the bed. Martin is stroking his hands over Jon’s hair, gazing down at him with a besotted expression that nearly makes Peter roll his eyes. Instead, he lays the hook against the small of Jon’s back, running it over his tailbone and down his cleft. Jon moans weakly and thrusts his arse up for more. 

“I think you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you, Archivist?” he says, prodding Jon’s hole with the smooth metal hook. When Jon doesn’t respond, he slaps his arse sharply, right over the bite marks. “Haven’t you?”

Jon swallows around Martin’s cock, and Martin shifts him to one side, allowing him to gasp, “Yes, Peter!” His voice is hoarse from the throat-fucking he’s received. 

“Good boy,” he praises, then turns to Martin. “Get him onto his knees on the floor, and then kneel beside him.” 

Martin lifts Jon as if he weighs nothing, scooping him against his chest before gently setting him on the floor and kneeling alongside him. Peter crouches down behind them, detaching the chain that runs from Jon’s wrists to his collar. 

“You’re going to like this,” he says, then pushes the cold metal hook into Jon. It can’t be comfortable; all Jon’s had is spit and Martin’s fingers, and he hisses at the intrusion. Peter smirks as he adjusts the toy. Once he’s satisfied with the depth, he attaches the hook to the chain, then steps back. 

“Are you ready for your reward?” Peter asks, rubbing his hand across the front of his own trousers, where his erection tents the fabric. Jon licks his lips, eyes glued to where Peter’s hand rests, hunger written plain across his face. Martin makes a small, needy sound. Both of them watch raptly as Peter lowers his zip, freeing his cock. 

Peter is a vain man and he knows it, but this is one area where his vanity is justified: his cock is thick and heavy, enough to make a porn star blush and a virgin quake. Jon licks his lips at the sight of it, unable to look away. 

“All you have to do is ask,” Peter says, stroking himself with a loose fist. 

Jon immediately stiffens, looking conflicted. He bites his lip, glancing from Peter’s cock to his face, a little frown marring his brow. 

Peter takes a step forward, until he’s standing directly before Jon. Jon leans forward, attempting to take Peter’s cock in his mouth, but he stops short with a gasp. Peter chuckles, knowing the source of his surprise: each movement pulls the hook deeper into Jon’s body. Not enough to satisfy him, but certainly enough to catch his attention. 

Panting, Jon leans forward again, and his lips brush Peter’s cock before Peter pulls back with a tut. 

“You only need to ask, Jon,” Peter says, rubbing the head across Jon’s cheek. Jon closes his eyes, shuddering as Peter smears pre-come across his face. It’s a good look for him. 

He pulls back before Jon can get his mouth on him, and Jon groans softly. 

“P-please,” Jon murmurs, face flushing pink. 

“Please what?” Peter asks, threading his fingers through Jon’s hair. He rubs himself against Jon’s mouth, gripping the short strands when Jon tries to lean forward. 

“Please let me suck your cock,” Jon says, voice low and shamed. 

“Why should I let you?”

Jon nearly sobs in frustration, fighting the hold on his hair in a fruitless attempt to get closer. 

“Because I need it,” he says helplessly. “I need you in me. I need you to fuck my mouth, to fill me up, _ please—” _

“I suppose I can grant your request,” Peter says generously, loosening his grip.

Jon surges forward, groaning as the hook sinks back into his arse. His mouth is hot and eager on Peter’s cock as he sucks, unskilled but wonderfully enthusiastic. 

Peter spares Martin a glance. The boy is watching with a mix of jealousy and fascination, panting through parted lips. 

“You can have a taste as well,” Peter allows. "There's enough to go around."

Martin crawls over as quickly as he can, rubbing his face against the base of Peter’s cock, then kissing the underside. Jon is still busily sucking the first few inches, and Martin licks the parts he can’t reach, worshipping Peter with his soft mouth. Peter groans in satisfaction. 

“You can share, Jon,” he admonishes, and Jon pulls off sucking the head to make room for Martin. Together, they kiss and lick the shaft, until their lips meet, and they both moan softly. 

Martin manages to fit more of Peter into his mouth than Jon, who drifts down to lavish attention on Peter’s balls. Peter rewards Martin by cupping the back of his skull and pulling him closer, working his way into Martin’s tight throat. Martin whimpers and swallows around the head, muscles flexing around Peter’s cock. He’s clearly the far more experienced of the two, and it makes Peter smile to know that his assistant is acquainted with deep throating. 

“Good boy,” Peter says approvingly, pushing deeper. Martin chokes a bit, but he makes no move to escape, letting Peter fuck his throat at his leisure. Peter reaches down to yank Jon’s hair, forcing him to watch Martin take his cock. 

“Are you going to let him outdo you?” Peter asks, pulling Martin off and allowing Jon to take his place. 

Jon’s brow furrows with effort, but he eventually manages to relax enough for Peter to push his way deeper, his throat opening to make way for Peter’s cock. Peter allows himself to be more careless here, knowing Jon can handle his rough thrusts. He gags violently, but Peter allows him no reprieve, forcing himself deeper, until Jon’s nose brushes his pubic hair. Jon’s eyes water at the rough treatment, but he’s already growing hard again, just from having Peter in his mouth. 

“Think you can do better?” Peter challenges, turning to Martin.

Martin sucks him down hungrily, without a single thought to decorum, drooling shamelessly as he works his way down Peter’s cock. Each movement brings Peter deeper, and he can feel Martin’s throat struggling to accept him, until finally Martin’s lips are nearly flush with the base of his cock. Peter groans, savoring the wet heat, and pulls Martin’s hair until he’s fully sheathed in his throat. Tears run down Martin’s cheeks, but he doesn’t resist. 

Finally Peter releases him, and Martin pulls back to cough violently. He’s a mess: face flushed and sweaty, with tears flowing openly. Jon kisses his cheeks, lapping at the tears, and then it’s his turn again. 

Peter takes his time, letting his orgasm build slowly. When he’s had enough, he pulls out, jerking himself with rough strokes. 

“Open wide,” he orders, and both of them do, lips parted eagerly, tongues extended. He comes with a low growl, shooting streaks of thick come all over their faces, into their waiting mouths, on their flushed cheeks, even across Martin’s eyelashes. 

“You can clean each other up,” he says generously, and they reach for each other eagerly, mouths meeting in a desperate kiss, licking Peter’s come from each other’s lips. The sight is filthy, vulgar, and absolutely gratifying: his sweet assistant and Elias’s precious Archivist reduced to eager little cocksluts, utterly reliant on Peter for their satisfaction. 

Peter is quite confident that he can keep them in this state for some time, without risking permanent damage to either of them. And he intends to enjoy every minute of it.


	3. Stanza III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frantically wondering how Martin's been feeling about this whole situation? Wonder no more! Thank you to everyone reading and commenting, we are so pleased you're enjoying the ride with us.

Martin has spent a great deal of time fantasizing about Jon. More than he’d like to admit. About his voice, his hands, the elegant line of his throat. Most of his fantasies have been pretty tame, like the one where Jon lets Martin rub the kinks out of his neck and then nuzzle his hair, or the one where he corners Martin in Artifact Storage and pulls him down by the collar to kiss him hard. Even those little daydreams leave him feeling embarrassed and faint, like he’s committed some transgression. 

He never dared to dream of what they’re doing now. Martin moans against Jon’s mouth, desperate to get closer to him, loving the salty, bitter taste of Peter’s come on his tongue. Jon’s hands are still chained behind his back, but Martin can bring his up to cup Jon’s face, letting his tongue lap across the sharp plane of Jon’s jaw, licking the sticky stripes from his skin. And Jon _ lets _him—relishes it, even, caught in the same spell as Martin. 

Martin hasn’t forgotten who or where he is. He’s well aware that something is going on beyond human comprehension, some mistake or machination that’s landed them in this situation. That book, with its cruelly sensual imagery, its language of lust and violence; did Martin draw those feelings out of it? Jon couldn’t even read those words, of course, Jon would never_ — _well, he just wouldn’t. It was only when Martin read the book to him that its obsession took root in them both. 

Martin could complain, put his hackles up, resist like Jon did, but what good did that do him? Peter claims he has a solution, and though Martin trusts Peter about as far as he can kick him, he knows Peter doesn’t want him or Jon dead. Or at least, he doesn’t want the fuss of having to train a new assistant.

He knows this is the only way to save themselves, and if it’s giving him everything he’s ever wanted...well, that just adds weight to the idea that this is his fault. Still there’s nothing to be done except give himself up to the overwhelming tides of desire that swell through him, stronger and stronger. He and Jon both need this now. Martin will just have to atone for it later.

“You both did very well,” Peter is saying, tucking his softening cock back into his trousers. Martin feels himself go warm at the praise, and he hears Jon make a soft, pleased sound, even as he presses closer against Martin’s mouth. Martin kisses him, hard and deep, because even if they survive this he’ll probably never get the chance again, and he wouldn’t trade this feeling of Jon’s mouth against his for anything. 

“All right, enough of that,” says Peter, and Martin breaks away from Jon immediately, panting quietly. They don’t need another object lesson about what happens if they disobey Peter.

“How are you doing, Martin?” Peter asks him cheerfully, grasping his chin hard and tilting it up. “Still enjoying the nipple clamps?”

“I_ — _yes, Peter,” Martin gasps. Truth be told he can’t feel the clamps much by now, only numb pressure throbbing dully through his tender flesh. 

“Good,” says Peter. “Because I have a much better idea for you. How would you feel about having those sweet little nipples pierced?”

Martin’s heart pounds at the idea, his thoughts racing as he imagines it: the flash of pain, Peter smiling at him cruelly as he slides the needle through his flesh, hurting him, _ marking _ him. He swallows hard.

“I_ — _ah, I don’t know…”

“Oh, sorry, my mistake_ — _I phrased that as a question. It’s not. Don’t worry though, it’s not permanent. Unless you decide you like it. Okay?”

“Yes, Peter,” Martin says, trying not to let it be a moan. It’s surprisingly reassuring to know he has no choice. Someone _ else _ can decide what he needs. Peter leans down and brushes a gentle kiss against his lips, making him shiver.

“You lovely thing. You’re going to look gorgeous when I’m done with you.” 

Peter disengages and walks out of the room, leaving Martin and Jon kneeling on the floor. Jon’s cock is standing erect again, flushed and lovely, and Martin knows he hasn’t been told to, but the sight is too tempting. He can’t stop himself from crawling into Jon’s lap, kissing him deep, using his hand to rub their cocks together. Jon moans into his mouth, his chains jingling as he jostles the hook buried in his arse. Jon’s teeth sink into his lower lip, hard, and Martin tastes blood in his mouth. The pain sends fierce desire racing through him and he jerks harder on their cocks, his other hand moving down to Jon’s balls, squeezing them roughly. Jon is whining, thrusting up against him, biting at Martin’s mouth and all Martin can think of is getting _ more. _

Behind him, Peter claps his hands together sharply, as if trying to startle wild animals.

“Hey!” he snaps. “None of that!” 

Martin starts away guiltily and cowers on the floor.

“Sorry, Peter! It was my fault. Punish me if you need to, it was all my idea! Jon didn’t do anything.”

“That’s not true,” Jon insists, glaring defiantly up at Peter. “I begged him for it, the moment you were out of the room. It was my fault, not Martin’s.”

Peter sets down the small case that’s tucked into the crook of his elbow, and stands over them, looking stern. 

“The rules are there for your own good,” he says. “I know it’s difficult to control yourselves, filthy little sluts that you both are, but you need to learn some discipline. Martin, until you can behave yourself, you’ll keep your hands behind your back like a naughty child.”

He unfastens the cuffs, and then roughly tugs Martin’s arms behind him, cuffing his wrists together in the small of his back. Martin stays silent, not wanting to make things any worse.

“And Jon. I _ was _ going to let you participate in this next part, since I know you’re a needy whore. But instead you’ll just watch.”

Peter lifts Martin to his feet and then pushes him onto the bed, arranging him on his knees against the headboard, leaning back with his chest thrust forward. It’s awkward with his hands trapped behind his back, but Martin gets into as comfortable a position as he can manage. Peter smiles at him, pulling sharply on the chain between the nipple clamps. The sensation is muted, but Martin still sighs a little as he feels the tug. 

“Time for these to come off, I think,” Peter says, and pinches both clamps open, setting them aside. Nothing happens for a couple of seconds, and then there is an abrupt rush of pain as blood flows back into Martin’s nipples. He gasps at the throbbing, tingling heat of it, even as it makes his cock twitch. More than anything Martin wishes he could press down on them with his palms, to relieve the pain, but his hands flex helplessly behind his back. Peter grins and leans in to lick and suck first one, then the other, and it’s too much sensation, making Martin flinch and hiss, even as he pushes against Peter’s mouth. 

At last Peter relents, and reaches for the case on the bedside locker, opening it to reveal a set of shining steel forceps; sharp, hollow needles; a selection of metal hoops and bars. This last Peter offers for Martin’s perusal.

“I was thinking the rose gold rings,” he says. “They’ll look lovely on those pink little buds.” Martin swallows hard and nods.

“Wh-whatever you want, Peter.”

“Good lad,” Peter chuckles, and pulls on a black disposable glove. “Safety first,” he explains cheerfully. Martin feels helpless and vulnerable, with his hands bound behind his back and his chest thrust out, unable to stop what Peter’s going to do to him. The feeling is frightening and also heady, and his breath quickens as Peter wipes his right nipple down with alcohol. 

The forceps clamp hard around his already swollen, tender flesh, and Martin bites his tongue around a whimper when the needle pierces through. The sharp stab of pain is exhilarating, as is the slow, torturous slide of the needle being removed. Peter finishes feeding the the ring through, closing its ends together with a metal ball, and gives it a little tug that makes Martin groan. 

“I was right about the color,” he says, sounding pleased. He repeats the process on the other side, and then flicks both rings with his fingers playfully. “Beautiful.” 

Martin gasps softly, looking down at the piercings. The rose gold shines against his nipples, swollen and dark pink from their treatment. Martin likes how they look, likes the way his nerves spark as Peter sucks one into his mouth, all his attention focused on that single point of pain and pleasure. 

“What do you think, Jon?” Peter asks over his shoulder, and with a guilty start Martin realizes he’d forgotten Jon, still kneeling on the floor. Jon is staring up at them with an intent expression. His eyes flicker to Martin’s chest, and his tongue darts out across his lips.

“They’re lovely,” he says, oddly soft. Martin flushes with pleasure at the words, at Jon’s eyes hungry on him. 

“If you’re good, maybe I’ll do the same for you,” Peter promises, putting the case away into a drawer. “Or maybe I’ll pierce something else of yours_ — _maybe your cock, or your taint.”

Jon drops his eyes, breathing hard. Peter chuckles. 

“For now, I’m going to enjoy playing with these while I fuck Martin. You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Martin?”

Martin moans, feeling a jolt of arousal go through him at the thought of Peter’s cock. He was barely able to get it all in his mouth earlier, he’s certainly never had one so large inside him. The prospect should be intimidating, but instead Martin is desperate for it. 

“Yes…” he breathes. “Peter, please, I need you to fuck me.” 

Peter leans in to kiss him again, teeth grazing the bite wounds on his lips, and Martin whimpers. 

“Of course, there is the matter of your punishment,” Peter whispers.

Martin can’t help his reaction: the words send a shiver through his body, making his cock twitch. He’s already come so many times, more than he has since he was a teenager, but somehow he can’t get enough of Peter’s and Jon’s hands on him, of their mouths, of their cocks. Part of him wonders if he was always such a slut, as Peter keeps calling him, and if the book has just given him an excuse. 

Because he’s always wanted Jon’s hands on him. He’s always wanted to kiss his lips, to taste the skin beneath his jaw. In his wilder fantasies he's even imagined the warmth and weight of Jon’s cock in his mouth, and how he’d sound when he was coming. Did he do this to Jon? Did he make this happen with the force of his want?

Peter’s hand closes around his throat, cutting off his thoughts along with his air. Martin struggles, but he’s powerless, hands and ankles bound, with Peter looming over him. He’s not sure he could stop Peter if he wanted to. He’s not sure he would want to.

“Am I boring you?” Peter asks coldly.

“N-no, Peter!”

Peter maneuvers him easily, turning Martin to face the headboard, then rearranges the restraints. Martin ends up kneeling in supplication, bowed forward with his hands pulled taut behind him, wrists attached to a chain overhead. The position leaves his arse and thighs exposed, and Peter runs his hands over them, making him squirm. Then Martin feels something softer and cooler brush against him. Peter’s belt, he realizes; the same one he hit Jon with. 

“How many lashes does our boy deserve?” Peter asks Jon conversationally. 

“N-none!” Jon says nervously. 

“You’re going to spoil him with that attitude,” Peter rebukes. “How else is he to learn his lesson?” 

Peter runs a gentle hand down Martin’s back, prodding between his cheeks. Martin groans and pushes back against him. 

“I think thirty is a much better number,” Peter says, stroking his fingers over Martin’s hole. 

“T-ten,” Jon suggests. Martin risks a glance in Jon’s direction. Jon’s eyes are glued to the spot where Peter’s touching him, watching each movement intently. Martin rocks his hips back, and Peter’s fingers nearly breach him. Jon bites his lip hard. Seeing Jon so affected sends a wave of pleasure through Martin.

“Did I hear fifty?” Peter asks, giving Martin’s arse a sharp pinch and making him gasp. 

“Twenty!” Jon cries.

“Twenty? I suppose that’ll do,” Peter says thoughtfully. 

Without warning, Peter draws back and slaps Martin’s arse hard with the belt. Martin’s teeth sink into his lip, and he tastes coppery blood. 

“Keep count, slut,” Peter orders.

“O-one!” Martin stammers.

The next blow hits the opposite cheek, and Martin squirms as he calls out the number. More blows hit his thighs, leaving streaks of white-hot pain on both sides. By the time they reach ten, Martin is panting, tears gathering in his eyes, but his cock is also painfully hard and dripping onto the sheets with each stroke. 

“P-peter,” he gasps. “Please…”

Another strike hits him just below the cheeks, and he cries, “Eleven!”

“Please what?” Peter asks, sounding bored. His hands run over Martin’s hot, aching flesh, and Martin sighs with pleasure. 

“Please fuck me,” he begs, pushing against Peter’s hands as best he can with his restraints. 

The next three strikes hit in quick succession, right across the center of his arse. Martin gasps out the numbers before he can lose count. 

“I think we should ask Jon, since he thinks he’s in charge,” Peter says, leaning down to kiss Martin’s burning skin. His mouth is lovely and cool against the welts. “Jon, what do you think?”

Martin turns to look at Jon. His face is tense as he stares up at them, and his eyes are dark with anger. Martin isn’t sure if it’s directed at him or at Peter. A muscle spasms in Jon’s jaw as he considers. 

“You should—give him what he wants,” Jon says quietly. 

Peter hits him farther down this time, near the crease of Martin’s knees, and he cries out in pain. The next three strikes hit the same place, until Martin nearly sobs out the numbers. 

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Peter tells him, before doling out the last two strikes, sharp blows across the tops of Martin’s thighs. Martin sags with relief, until Peter digs into the sore skin with his blunt nails and makes him gasp. 

“You should...fuck him,” Jon says, sounding ashamed. 

“You don’t sound very keen on it,” Peter rebukes, leaning down to lick a stripe between Martin’s cheeks. Martin keens high in his throat, pushing back as best as he can. 

“Fuck, _ please, _ Peter!” Martin cries. 

“I can hardly do it without your Archivist’s permission,” Peter says. “What would you have me do?”

“I just _ gave _you permission,” Jon snaps.

“Yes, but you weren’t very enthusiastic about it.” 

“You don’t need my enthusiasm.”

Peter pushes a dry finger into Martin. It burns a bit, but Martin’s never wanted anything so badly. He squirms in place, trying to work it deeper, but he’s trapped. He whines in frustration. Then Peter pulls away, and Martin’s heart sinks. 

“Peter, _ please!” _he begs “I need you in me! Please, I need it so badly!”

Peter tsks, patting Martin on the thigh. 

“I’m sorry, lad. Your Archivist is being too stubborn.” 

Peter leaves Martin hanging there, helpless, as he undresses. Martin hears him shedding his clothes and twists his neck to watch as Peter’s thick, muscular body is uncovered. Martin would be lying if he said he’d never imagined what lay beneath Peter’s clothes, but the sight is even better than he’d imagined, his chest hairy and heavily muscled, his arms strong and tattooed. Martin’s mouth goes dry.

Peter rolls Martin onto his back, adjusting his restraints so his arms are bound by his sides, knees spread, wrists chained to his ankles, with his arse on display. The position gives Martin even less room to struggle, and he gives a frustrated whine. 

Peter’s hands run down the insides of his thighs, skirting around his dripping cock as Martin squirms. He takes a moment to cup Martin’s balls before pinching so hard Martin sees stars. 

_ “Fuck!” _ he whines, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes “Peter, _ please! _”

“What do you say, Archivist?” Peter asks, not taking his eyes off Martin’s face. He wipes a tear from his cheek, then licks it off his finger. 

With great effort, Martin manages to spare a glance at Jon. Jon’s chest is heaving, his pupils blown as he watches Peter touch Martin, but his jaw is stubbornly clenched. 

“Please, Jon!” Martin sobs. “I need it so badly! I can’t take it anymore!”

Peter strokes Martin’s entrance gently, prodding at the tight muscle, and Martin tosses his head back in frustration. The hunger is building again, so fierce he fears it might consume him, but he can’t _ move. _All he can do is beg and hope Peter takes pity on him. 

“God, please, I’m begging you! I’ll let you do anything you want! You can fuck me, choke me, _ hurt _ me, I just need your cock, _ please! _ I need you to fill me up and _ use _me!”

“Do it, Peter,” Jon orders, his voice tight. “Fuck him. Please.”

“Like this?” Peter asks, prodding Martin’s hole with two dry fingers. 

“Yes!” Martin moans. 

“No!” Jon cries. Then, more steadily. “Use some lubricant. Get it nice and slick for him.”

Peter reaches into the drawer by the bed, pulling out a small bottle. He uncaps it and pours a dollop into his hands, then rubs it on his cock with a pleasured sigh. Martin licks his lips in anticipation. 

“You should use your fingers to get him ready for you,” Jon says. 

“Why should I do that?” Peter asks, stroking himself lazily. 

“Won’t he look perfect writhing on your fingers?” Jon replies. 

“That he will,” Peter agrees.

On the floor, Jon squirms as if trying to escape his bonds, but Peter’s bound him far too securely for that. Peter fixes him with an amused look, and he stops. 

Peter pours more lubricant onto his fingers, reaching down to stroke circles around Martin’s hole before pushing two fingers inside him. Martin gasps and arches his back, savoring the stretch. He glances at Peter’s cock. He’s not sure how it’s going to fit, but he wants so badly to try. Peter pushes in and out of him lazily, reaching up to flick one of Martin’s nipples just to make him whimper. 

“What would you do next, Archivist? If you were me.” Peter fixes Jon with a smug grin. 

“I-I’d stroke his cock,” Jon confesses, biting his lip. “And slip another finger inside him.”

Peter follows Jon’s advice, brushing his palm over Martin’s cock as he pushes another finger into him. His fingers feel huge inside Martin, but somehow it only makes him crave more; he wants all of them, enough to split him open, even Peter’s fist if he’ll let Martin have it. His cock dribbles at the thought, and Peter smirks down at him. 

_ “Please,” _ Martin whines. “I need you to fuck me. I need your _ cock_, need you to come in me, fill me up until I’m dripping—” 

“Sounds like he needs it pretty bad,” Peter says, turning to Jon. “What are you willing to give me for fucking him?”

_ “Jon…” _Martin whimpers, unsure of whether he wants to encourage Jon or to stop him.

Jon’s face is steely as he says, “Anything you want.”

Peter chuckles. “That’s a tall order. What if I want to pierce your pretty little cock? Or carve my name into your arse?”

The images flash across Martin’s mind unbidden: Peter sliding a needle through Jon’s swollen cock as Jon arches his spine and moans; a knife parting Jon’s pale skin, leaving gleaming red trails that Peter laps with his tongue. Martin shouldn’t want it, should tell Jon to say no, but—

“Y-yes,” Jon says shakily, and Peter grins triumphantly. Martin feels dizzy.

“I suppose if Jon needs me to fuck you _ that _badly, I’d best get to it,” he tells Martin, stroking his thighs. 

Peter lines himself up, pressing the blunt head of his cock against Martin’s hole, before sinking in slowly. Martin moans as Peter fills him up one inch at a time, a slow invasion that stretches him until he fears he’ll break, at the same time he longs for it. By the time Peter’s fully seated, Martin can barely breathe. Peter leans down to kiss him, filthy and possessive, then pulls out slightly. 

“You sweet little whore,” Peter murmurs, before slamming back in. 

Peter fucks him at a brutal pace, deep thrusts that shake him apart. Martin’s fists clench helplessly; tied up, he has no choice but to take what Peter gives him. Tears spill down Martin’s cheeks, even as he moans and begs for more. His cock is jerking with every thrust of Peter inside him, throbbing painfully. His fingers twitch helplessly against his ankles, desperate to touch himself. He could come so quickly, he knows it, if someone would just _ touch him. _

“Please Peter,” he sobs, his voice breaking. “Please, I need to come so badly, please, it _ hurts.” _

“What do you think, Jon?” Peter says, sounding scarcely out of breath despite the pace he’s setting. “Should I take pity on him?”

“You should—let him come.” Jon’s voice sounds strangled. Martin twists awkwardly to look in his direction, but he can’t see Jon’s expression through his tears. 

“Hmm, you think?” Peter’s thrusts stop abruptly, and Martin whines with despair. “I’m not sure he’s desperate enough yet. Are you, Martin?”

“Pleaseplease_please,” _ Martin babbles, shaking his head, trying to push his arse against Peter’s cock. Peter chuckles. 

“Well, if you both agree,” he says, and wraps a large hand around Martin’s dripping cock, firm and callused. Martin cries out at the relief of being touched as Peter begins thrusting into him again. Peter tugs hard on his cock, once, twice, and by the third stroke Martin’s coming harder than he thinks he ever has, his whole body convulsing around Peter’s dick, his spunk splashing up across his own chest and onto his chin. 

Peter fucks him brutally through it, keeps stroking Martin’s spent cock until he’s writhing, whimpering, oversensitized and sore. Peter’s hand is vise-tight and punishing around his abused flesh, his cock still ramming into Martin’s stretched, aching hole. Martin can’t do anything but lie there and take it, his body limp in its bonds, humming with sensation. Peter’s other hand strokes over his hair, his face, slaps his cheek lightly, just enough to sting. 

“I’m going to come inside you, Martin,” he murmurs, intimately, “And then I’m going to have Jon lick the come out of your tight little hole, all right?” Martin moans, his cock twitching faintly, and Peter chuckles. 

His strokes become even harder, even faster, pounding Martin’s body into the mattress, and then with a low groan he spills hot inside Martin, thrusting deeper into him as his come slicks the way. At last his movements slow to a stop, and he smiles down at Martin, patting his cheek playfully.

“Gorgeous thing,” he says, and eases his cock out of Martin’s arse, a slow, burning slide that makes Martin moan. Martin wriggles a little, trying to relieve the pressure on his bound limbs, longing to stretch them out. 

“Be patient a little longer, pet,” says Peter, rubbing his big, blunt thumb over Martin’s hole. “We need to get you cleaned up, and Jon’s going to help. Aren’t you?”

Martin blinks away the last of his tears, turning his head towards Jon. Jon’s eyes are dark and turbulent, his lips parted and wet even as a frown dips between his brows. He looks bewildered, torn. 

“Aren’t you, Jon?” Peter repeats, smacking a hand against Martin’s red, stinging thigh for emphasis, making him hiss. 

“Yes, I’ll help,” says Jon, dropping his eyes. Peter climbs off the bed, leaving Martin trussed like a Christmas turkey. He crouches behind Jon, and Martin can’t see what he’s doing, except then Jon’s shoulders roll, his arms coming around in front of his body, rubbing at his cuffed wrists and hissing uncomfortably.

“You can have use of your hands for a while,” Peter says magnanimously, reattaching Jon’s cuffs in front of him. Then he lifts Jon off his knees and pushes him onto the bed. Jon gasps as the chain stretching down his back goes taut, pulling at the hook buried in his body. He arches his back, and the look on his face might be pain or pleasure. 

“There, there,” Peter tuts cheerfully. “Why don’t you get down there and eat Martin’s arse for a bit? You’ll feel better after you’ve licked all my come out of him.”

“R-right.” Jon crawls uncomfortably, his back still arched, up between Martin’s splayed legs. His eyes dart up to meet Martin’s. “Are you all right?” he asks, his tone very soft. 

“I’m okay,” Martin says. “You?”

“Yeah,” says Jon. Peter hums impatiently, and gives a tug to the chain so Jon whimpers. 

“I didn’t tell you to have a conversation. Get to it.”

Jon nods, and smiles weakly up at Martin, crawling even closer. Then Jon’s tongue laps delicately against his tender hole, and Martin shivers. Jon seems to grow more confident, his tongue licking at Martin more firmly, pressing past the ring of muscle. Martin gasps as Jon’s tongue pushes inside him, circling, moving deeper, and then Jon’s lips are pressed up against him, sucking and slurping at his hole. The sensation is faintly ticklish and deeply, achingly erotic, and Martin’s eyelids flutter with it. Jon’s nose is pressed just behind his balls, his breath warm against Martin’s skin.

“Jon…” he breathes, “Jon, please…”

“Get him nice and clean,” Peter instructs. Jon groans. His bound hands stroke over Martin’s welted buttocks, stinging and delicious, and then his thumbs gently ease Martin’s hole wider, letting his tongue slide deeper, suckling at the sensitive flesh. Martin is whining and rocking against him, and his cock can’t harden again so soon but little jolts of pleasure are running through it, making it twitch. 

“All right,” Peter says eventually. “I think he’s clean enough. And I think you’ve tasted enough of my come for now, Archivist.”

Jon keeps licking, groaning against Martin’s flesh, until Peter yanks sharply on the chain. Jon’s neck snaps back and he cries out, tears standing in his eyes. Peter pulls implacably on the chain, drawing Jon’s back into a painful bow as he moans. Jon pushes up on his hands, scrambling to his knees, and Peter releases him. 

“Now, then,” Peter says. “There’s the matter of payment.”


	4. Stanza IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finally gets the attention he so desperately needs. It might be more than he bargained for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we just say, we fucking _love_ our readers? You guys are fantastically filthy, and we thank you for all your praise, encouragement, and ideas! You help make this fic incredibly fun for us. <3

The mention of  _ payment _ makes Jon flush with heat. He would have agreed to anything for Martin’s sake, to stop the way he was clearly suffering. But the things Peter talked of doing to him are surely too much, too brutal, even if his heart beats faster at the thought. Jon licks Peter’s come from his lips, horribly aware of how vulnerable he is: hands chained together, kneeling on Peter’s bed, the hook in his arse sinking deeper with each motion. He’s also painfully, dizzyingly hard. 

Martin is spread out before him, tantalizingly close, and even more helpless than Jon: his knees spread, ankles bound to his wrists, his hole loose and wet with spit and come. The sight makes his mouth water all over again, but he knows Peter won’t grant him the satisfaction. 

“He—it’s still all over him,” Jon pants, staring intently at Martin’s chest and stomach, the gleaming white come sinking into the soft red-gold hair. It’s even on his chin. Jon aches to lick it off him. 

“Is it?” Peter asks casually, swiping the mess on Martin’s belly with his first two fingers. He moves to wipe it on the sheets before Jon stops him.

“P-please—” Jon says impulsively. 

Peter’s eyes glow with amusement. He extends his fingers to Jon’s mouth with the air of someone feeding scraps to a pet. 

Jon’s eyes close as the taste hits his tongue, and he sucks gently. Peter pushes his fingers in a bit deeper, just short of gagging him. 

“I always suspected you were a greedy little slut, under that prissy exterior,” Peter says, almost fondly. 

Jon moans, face flushing hotly, and Peter rewards him by feeding him more of Martin’s come. Some part of Jon is horrified at how far he’s sunk, but the rest is just straining for more, sucking every drop off Peter’s fingers. Once they’ve gotten Martin as clean as he’s going to get, Peter spares him a gentle pat on the head. 

“Good boy,” he murmurs. Jon fights the pleased shiver his words induce. 

Looking down at Martin, Jon is shocked to see he’s already growing hard again, twisting against his bonds. Martin’s eyes are fixed on Jon’s mouth. Jon’s never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life, to lean down and share the taste of Martin’s come with him, even if it’s mingled with Peter’s. 

Peter leans down to release Martin from his bonds, and Martin sighs gratefully, flexing his arms and legs in relief. He’s only free for a moment, however, before Peter binds him in a new position: kneeling at the head of the bed. His hands are bound in front of him, and to the headboard, so he can’t move more than a few inches. 

Jon gets bound face-down on the bed, with his face pillowed on Martin’s thighs. His arms and legs are spread as wide as they’ll go, tied to the bedposts. He has to crane his neck back to avoid pulling the hook, until Peter removes it. For a moment, he feels disconcertingly empty, before something cold and thick prods at his entrance. His breath hitches as it slides into him, stretching him open mercilessly. 

“Just think how much better my cock will feel in you, once you’ve earned it,” Peter says in a low voice, and Jon can’t help but imagine it. Peter’s cock breaching him, fucking him with the same intensity he’d had with Martin. He imagines Peter would be even less careful with him, knowing Jon will heal far more quickly. How hard could Peter fuck him before he broke? Would Jon even mind being broken? 

He’s not sure anymore. 

Martin’s fingers stroke his hair, and Jon leans into the touch, comforted. Then something cold splashes against his spine, and he cries out. 

“Calm down,” Peter says. “I’m just cleaning you. Makes for a prettier canvas.” 

Something wet strokes Jon’s back, spreading what must be alcohol across his skin.  _ What if I want to pierce your pretty little cock? Or carve my name into your arse? _ It seems Peter intends to make good on his promise. The idea makes Jon’s pulse race frenetically, and he buries his face against Martin’s thighs. Peter continues down Jon’s back, swiping across his arse cheeks and jostling the plug inside him. 

Something cool and hard brushes the back of his neck, and his breath catches.

“I thought of using a scalpel for this,” Peter says conversationally, running the blade down Jon’s spine. “But there’s something more intimate about a knife, isn’t there? I’ve had this one since I was a young man. A bit of an heirloom, if you will.” 

“You can’t see it, so I’ll describe it for you: it’s a hunting knife, the kind you would use to skin your prey, or carve them for meat.” Peter’s voice is perfectly pleasant as he explains, heedless of the shiver that passes over Jon as he imagines himself as  _ prey.  _ “It’s slim and agile, with a mother of pearl handle and a finely pointed blade. I take care of my things, so it’s nice and sharp. A blade like this can part your skin like butter.”

Peter draws the flat of the blade down Jon’s spine and between his cheeks, making him whimper. 

“Tell me what you want, Archivist,” Peter orders, pressing the tip of the blade against his skin. 

“I…” Jon stops, swallowing hard. So many images swim before him: Peter slicing him open, tearing him apart; carving pieces from him and placing them gently on Martin’s tongue, leaving them all smeared in red, red,  _ red.  _ The thought makes his cock twitch, and he groans against Martin’s skin. 

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin murmurs, stroking his face. “We’re going to take care of you.”

Martin’s fingers feel so good against his skin that Jon could cry. He nuzzles against them, and Martin cups his cheek. 

“Well, Jon?” Peter asks. 

Jon takes a deep breath through his nose, lets its out in a long sigh before saying, “I want you to cut me.”

He can hear the pleased smile in Peter’s voice as he murmurs, “Good boy.” 

The first cut begins on Jon’s left shoulder blade: a white-hot pain that makes him hiss and squirm. 

“Hold still,” Peter admonishes, slapping him sharply on the arse. “You’ll ruin the line.” 

Jon inhales deeply as Peter makes the next cut, a long curve towards his spine. He’s breathing hard by the time Peter lifts the knife again, preparing for a third. He tries to distract himself by concentrating on the pattern, seeing if he can divine Peter’s intention, but the lines seem almost random. A particularly deep cut makes him cry out, hips driving against the bed. 

“You do bleed prettily,” Peter murmurs. “Would you like a taste, Martin?”

Martin makes a hungry noise, and Jon cranes his neck to look as Peter extends the knife to Martin, letting him lap Jon’s blood from the blade. The sight makes Jon go hot all over, rocking his hips involuntarily. Then Peter lets the blade slip by just a hair, and Martin cries out, blood welling from his bottom lip and mixing with Jon’s on the blade. 

Peter leans forward to kiss him hungrily, sucking Martin’s lip into his mouth and worrying at it with his teeth. They both moan, and Martin’s hands clench in Jon’s hair. By the time they part, both their mouths are stained red, and Martin’s cock is dripping. Jon desperately wants to lick the clear droplets from his cock, but Peter’s tied him too tightly to reach. He licks his lips, letting out a low sound of desperation. 

A sharp slap against his arse makes Jon jerk, momentarily distracted. 

“Honestly, you two are worse than children,” Peter says, clucking his tongue. “Spoiled. Little. Sluts.” 

He punctuates each word with another slap, making Jon tighten around the plug, until he’s thrusting against the mattress, unable to contain himself. 

“This is for me, not for you. You don’t come until I give you permission.” Peter reaches down to pinch one of Jon’s balls so hard that his eyes water. “You won’t like what happens if you do. Understood?”

Given that he’s already allowed Peter to take a knife to him, Jon can only imagine what a  _ real  _ punishment would look like. The images his mind supplies are as terrifying as they are exciting, and they do nothing to ease his aching erection; if anything, he could swear he gets harder, which he thought was impossible at this point.  _ Surprising that Leitner never thought to market this for erectile dysfunction, _ he thinks hysterically. He tries not to think of whatever poor assistant got roped into testing this one. 

“Yes,” Jon says hoarsely. 

Peter resumes his work on the other side of Jon’s back. Jon can’t be sure, but he thinks he’s mirroring the previous pattern. Each stroke of the blade makes his heart beat faster. He should be screaming, struggling, trying to get away—it’s not  _ right,  _ he’s in  _ danger _ , his instincts blaring alarms, but...he doesn’t  _ want  _ to. It feels good to surrender, to relax into the bonds and let Peter decide what will happen to him. He doesn’t have to think, just enjoy the searing pleasure-pain of the knife parting his skin. 

“That’s it,” Peter murmurs, stroking a hand over the back of his neck. 

“P-please, Peter,” Jon whimpers, arching into the contact. “I need—”

Jon loses all composure by the time Peter reaches the small of his back: mouth open, panting and drooling against Martin’s thigh, hips grinding in small circles against the mattress. Martin’s hands are in his hair, whispering encouragement, but Jon can scarcely hear it over the roaring in his ears. 

“Peter, I’m going to—”

_ “Control yourself,” _ Peter says harshly. 

With some effort, Jon takes a deep breath and manages to cease his rutting, though it pains him. Panting raggedly, he clenches his fists so hard his nails break the skin.

“Well done,” Peter praises, and Jon hates how the words make him flush with pleasure and hide his face in Martin’s lap. Peter drags the knife from the small of Jon’s back out towards his hip in a long, curving stroke, a mirror of the mark on his other side. But as it skirts around the curve of Jon’s arse, the knife twists cruelly. Jon cries out as the pain slices deep, and he feels the hot blood start to flow, far quicker than from the other cuts. Adrenaline sweeps over him in a dizzying rush. 

“Oops,” he hears Peter say, sounding not even a little penitent, and Jon doubts this was any kind of accident. Above him, Martin gives a low groan that might be distress or pleasure, his cock still stiff and leaking. 

“Jon…” he breathes, then: “Peter,  _ please.” _

“You’re going to ruin my sheets, Archivist,” Peter complains, and then reaches past him to unfasten Martin from the metal bed frame. “Go on then,” he sighs, “You can clean him up with your mouth.”

Jon’s face falls against the mattress as Martin squirms out from beneath him and crawls down Jon’s body. Jon can hear Martin’s harsh breathing in counterpoint to his own, Jon’s heart thudding in his chest and the cuts across his back pulsing in sympathy. 

“Jon,” Martin murmurs against his hip, “You’re bleeding…” Martin’s tongue laps at that deep cut, tender and stinging, and then his mouth clamps around the torn flesh and he  _ sucks,  _ groaning. Jon gasps and thrashes in his bonds, helpless and spread open as Martin presses against him, making greedy swallowing noises. God,  _ yes, _ Martin can have all of him, anything he wants, and Jon is lightheaded with desire at the caress of Martin’s lips, as Martin’s teeth scrape at the edges of the cut and then sink in hard. Jon whines, tosses his head against the mattress, and distantly hears Peter say: “Enough of that!” 

Jon hears Martin cry out, his mouth pulling away, and when Jon twists his head he sees Peter dragging Martin back by the hair. Martin’s lips are parted, his mouth and chin smeared in vivid crimson, his expression pained, and he looks so beautiful that Jon could cry. 

“I won’t have you two taking chunks out of each other,” Peter scolds, shaking Martin by the hair to emphasize his point. 

“Sorry, Peter!” Martin cries. “I—I didn’t mean to!” Peter sighs and releases him, stroking a hand over Martin’s hair and down to his cheek, Martin pushing into the touch. 

“I know you didn’t, pet,” he says. “That book would have the two of you tearing each other to shreds if you were on your own. That’s why you need me here, right?”

Martin nods, his cheek still nestled into Peter’s palm. Peter is right about this, Jon knows. That is the promise and the horror of the Flesh, our bodies only meat, to fuck and to devour. That is the allure and the trap of the book, passion turned to obsession turned to consumption. Even now his heart races at the idea of Martin’s teeth sinking into him, his blood slicking over Martin’s soft lips, Martin’s tongue inside him and his flesh sliding down Martin’s throat, becoming  _ part  _ of him. Jon whimpers, bereft, because knowing how twisted and unnatural the thought is doesn’t make him want it any less. He is suddenly, desperately thankful that Peter has control of this situation, to stop them from loving each other to death. 

Peter secures Martin, kneeling on the floor with his hands bound to his ankles behind his back. “Keep you out of trouble for a few minutes,” he says fondly, flicking Martin’s pierced nipples so roughly that he cries out in pain. Then he returns his attention to Jon’s carved back. He wipes Jon’s skin down with alcohol again, making him hiss, and then stands back to admire his handiwork.

“Look at that. Nearly stopped bleeding already. Avatar healing really is a wonder, isn’t it? Give it a couple of days and you won’t even know you had these. Well, except maybe that one.” He prods at the deeper cut over Jon’s right buttock, chuckling at Jon’s flinch. “That one might leave a scar all right. Call it a souvenir.”

Jon feels a flash of anger, not for the wound itself—another scar is nothing—but for Peter’s glee in having given it to him. He forces himself to swallow the harsh words rising in his throat, because they need Peter.  _ He _ needs Peter, god, he’s so desperate he could weep, his cock throbbing in time with the lines of pain running over his flesh, the plug in his arse stretching him, filling him, but it’s not enough. 

“Please,” he cries, not trying to hide the need in his voice.  _ “Please, _ Peter.”

“Please what, Jon? Did you need something?”

“I—I need you to fuck me, please. I  _ need  _ it!”

“I know you do,” Peter strokes his hair and Jon pushes into the touch. “You’re such a hungry slut. You need me to fill up that pretty little arse of yours, don’t you?”

Jon nods, yes, he needs it, he’ll admit to anything,  _ anything _ just so long as Peter fucks him, fills him up, lets him  _ fucking come. _ He pushes his arse up as best he can in his bound position, and Peter gives it a slap that makes him groan. 

“If Elias could only see you now,” he says. “Which of course he could. Do you think he’s watching, Jon? Enjoying the show?”

A fresh wave of heat washes over Jon at the thought of Elias’ cool eyes on him, the steady gaze that says he sees everything you’re trying to keep hidden. Not that anything’s hidden now, all Jon’s desperation and need out on display, and he can’t find it in him to care. He moans and pushes his hips up again, clenching around the plug. 

“All right, all right.” Peter laughs indulgently. He unties Jon from the bedposts and rearranges him with his arse in the air and his hands behind his back, his wrist cuffs and collar both chained to the ceiling. Jon spares a moment’s incredulity for Peter’s extensive suspension bondage set up, but really it’s not that surprising, considering all the other...equipment he has on hand. Jon’s left hanging there, facing Martin, whose eyes on him are hazy and hot, blood still drying on his parted lips. Martin’s cock is standing stiffly out but he hardly seems aware of it, with his back arched awkwardly, his wrists secured to his ankles. The rings in his swollen nipples shine, and Jon’s mouth waters to taste those sweet, tender buds, to lick the sheen of sweat off Martin’s chest and belly and thighs. He shifts restlessly in his bonds. 

“Patience, Archivist,” Peter tells him, coming around to nudge his thick, heavy cock against Jon’s mouth. Jon opens immediately, keenly, and Peter rubs the head over Jon’s lips, his tongue, before easing the hard length inside. Jon’s mouth stretches to welcome it, saliva flooding beneath his tongue at the rich taste of musk and pre-come, his throat opening eagerly as Peter’s cock presses further and further back. Peter holds him by the hair as he thrusts shallowly into Jon’s throat, Jon’s eyes watering and swallowing hungrily around the length of it. He hasn’t had nearly enough when Peter’s cock slides out of his mouth, and Jon whimpers with loss, his tongue lapping at the retreating head. Peter chuckles.

“Such a keen little whore,” he says. “I should have you suck me and Martin off at the same time, see how much cock you can really stuff into that mouth.” The thought makes Jon’s mouth water as he imagines kneeling before them, taking them both into his stretched mouth, tasting their salty musk on his tongue as they use him in tandem. 

“For now, though, I’m going to fill up that tight arse of yours, as promised. And because I’m feeling generous, I’m going to let you decide when you’ve had enough.”

Peter moves behind him and Jon hears the sound of him slicking his cock. He shivers. Peter draws the plug out of him, far slower than necessary, and Jon moans at the delicious slow slide of it. Peter’s fingers rub over the stretched rim of his arsehole, smearing it with lubricant, barely dipping inside, and Jon pushes back as far as he can in his bonds, aching to have more inside him, his heart racing with anticipation. When the big, blunt head of Peter’s cock finally nudges up against his hole, Jon groans, a stream of quiet pleas falling from his lips,  _ please _ Peter,  _ please, _ he needs it so badly. 

Peter’s cock pushes inside him in a single, relentless motion, and despite the lube and the stretch from the plug, it hurts, a hot ache that shivers through Jon, that makes his balls tighten and his cock throb. He hears himself whimpering as the thick length stretches him open and fills him all at once, going deep, and when the head presses against his prostate Jon keens high in his throat, his mouth hanging open and wet. Some small, rational part of him is horrified at his helpless hunger, his desperation, but it’s subsumed beneath a writhing mass of lust that overcomes all his senses. Jon pushes back against Peter’s cock, wanting it even deeper inside him, harder, wanting Peter to fuck him so hard it hurts. 

Peter doesn’t move for a few moments, staying fully seated in Jon’s arse. He runs his nails hard down the length of Jon’s back, over the fanciful pattern of knife wounds, and Jon moans at the painful heat, feels blood start to well as some of them split open again. Peter grasps Jon’s hips firmly, nails digging fierce crescents into his skin, and finally,  _ finally _ Peter starts fucking him, pulling his cock almost all the way out before driving back in again. 

“H-harder,” Jon pants out, spreading his thighs as far as they’ll go, shamefully, desperately aroused. 

“Needy thing,” Peter says, reaching forward to snatch Jon’s hair, forcing his head back and making tears well in his eyes. Satisfied with his new handhold, he slams back into Jon, forcing his way even deeper. Jon moans, equal parts overwhelmed and relieved. 

Peter’s cock shouldn’t feel so good splitting him open. Jon shouldn’t crave the pain and the stretch and the delicious feeling of being  _ used,  _ but the hunger is tearing at his chest, ripping into him, breaking him down until he’s nothing but an empty vessel to be filled: with cocks, with come, with hot red ichor, he scarcely cares anymore. Tears spill down his face, dripping onto the sheets. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” Peter asks, releasing his grip on Jon’s hair to stroke a thumb over Jon’s cheek, collecting the wetness gathered there. His hips barely slow in their movements, driving into Jon in an inexorable rhythm. 

“M-more…” Jon begs miserably. 

“You poor thing,” Peter says, stroking his cheek. “You really  _ are  _ a slut, aren’t you?”

Peter’s hips have stopped, leaving him only half-filled. Jon squirms fruitlessly, knowing what Peter wants but unwilling to give it, until his need overcomes his shame.

“Yes,” he whispers. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.” 

_ “Yes!” _ Jon cries, bowing his head. “I’m a—a slut!”

A low whimper catches his attention, and he looks down to see Martin, still kneeling on the floor. His eyes are fixed on Jon, pupils dilated, utterly transfixed. Martin licks his lips slowly. Blood drips sluggishly from the cut on his lip, freshly reopened. His cock is a lush red, stiff and needy and mouth-watering. 

Peter chuckles. “What am I to do with you two?”

_ “Please,  _ Peter…” Martin says desperately. 

“I suppose I could use your help,” he admits, pulling out of Jon so he can stand. Jon frowns, feeling empty and bereft. “No more biting?”

“I promise!”

“To me,” Peter orders, pointing to his feet. 

Martin’s ankles are bound more loosely than his hands, but it still takes him obvious effort to crawl to Peter, shuffling on his knees with his hands behind his back until he can lean against Peter’s thigh. The sight of him so debased makes Jon’s breath catch in his throat. Peter leans down to unchain Martin’s feet, leading him to kneel behind Jon on the bed. Jon’s heart races as he considers what’s about to happen.

“Your poor Archivist is in quite a state, isn’t he?” Peter asks, running a hand over Jon’s hip. His nails catch on the gash he left, making Jon whine and thrust his hips into empty air. 

“Yes…” Martin says breathlessly. 

“Let’s put that lovely cock of yours to use, shall we?”

Jon hears the sounds of more slick being poured out, followed by a low whimper for Martin, before something prods at his entrance. He moans, pushing back into the pressure as Martin breaches him for the first time. It feels incredibly right, the two of them bound together in flesh, Jon’s blood in Martin’s belly, Martin’s cock in Jon, made one and whole.

Martin thrusts slowly, carefully, and Jon growls low in his throat, already craving more. 

“Patience, slut,” Peter says, slapping him on the arse. He clenches reflexively, and Martin groans. 

Something wet slides between Jon’s cheeks, circling his stretched rim and making him shiver. Peter’s finger, he realizes. Peter pushes it in alongside Martin’s cock, stroking him from the inside. Jon can barely breathe. 

“P-peter,” Martin gasps, shivering so hard Jon can feel the tremors in his thighs. “I can’t—”

Peter does something that makes Martin cry out. Jon can’t tell whether the sound is pleasure, pain, or both. 

“You will,” Peter promises. “Your Archivist is counting on you.”

With a low whine, Martin pulls back, then thrusts into him again. Peter’s finger circles his hole, maddeningly slow. Having both of them in him feels greedy, decadent, and yet he still craves more. As if sensing his desire, Peter teases a second finger against his hole. 

“You’ll tell me when you’ve had enough, won’t you, Jon,” Peter says.

“Y-yes,” Jon promises, straining against his bonds as Peter enters him once more, his thick fingers moving in counterpoint to Martin’s cock so Jon is constantly being breached, fucked open, exposed. Martin begins picking up speed, thrusting into him with abandon. Jon finds himself whispering encouragement, filthy praise and desperate pleas that make Martin gasp and shudder. 

A third finger traces his rim, and Jon’s mouth goes dry. It’s too much, it  _ has  _ to be, but he wants it so badly. A low, needy noise escapes him, makes Peter chuckle. 

“I’m going to fuck you with my fist next,” Peter promises. “You’ll look so pretty split open on my hand. You filthy thing, I’ll fuck you so hard you see stars.”

Jon groans loudly as the third finger enters him. It’s a tight fit, stretching him wider than he thought possible. Martin’s hips stutter in their rhythm, and he makes a low, choked sound. 

“Please, Peter, I’m going to come—” Martin pleads. 

“What do you say, Jon?” Peter asks, amused. “Do you want him to come in you?”

_ “Yes,” _ Jon moans, feeling himself clench in anticipation. 

“I’ll allow it,” Peter says with an air of generosity. 

Martin pushes into him, stretching him wide, filling him up,  _ using  _ Jon the way his instincts scream that he needs. His thrusts grow fast and messy, uncoordinated in a way that brings a surge of fierce pride to Jon.  _ He  _ did this to Martin, fed the hunger inside him, and now he’s going to make Martin come. 

“Do it,” Jon begs, hips pushing up and back, meeting Martin’s thrusts. “Fuck,  _ please, _ come in me, come all over me—”

“Fuck,  _ Jon—” _ Martin cries, slamming in him one last time. Jon can feel the spurts of hot come inside him, and shuts his eyes, savoring the sensation. It’s taken from him all too soon, leaving him with nothing but the wet sensation of come oozing from his well-used hole. 

“Had enough?” Peter asks, tracing a finger along the inside of his rim. Jon cranes his head to look back just in time to watch Peter feed Martin his own come, harvested straight from Jon’s hole. The sight makes him feel hot all over, feverish and dizzy. 

_ “More,” _ Jon says instinctively. “Please…”

Behind him, Peter says, “I’m allowing you to use your hands, for now. Don’t abuse it.” Jon hears the clink of chains, then feels Martin’s hands on his hips, soft and reverent. Far fewer calluses than Peter, and far warmer. 

“How many do you think he can take?” Peter asks. 

“I—I don’t know,” Martin says, a bit breathless. 

“Why don’t you give him some of yours?”

Jon hears a soft gasp, and then gentle fingers push into him. He’s so open and slick now, there’s almost no resistance. Martin fucks him gently with them, a slow motion that drives Jon half mad. 

“Very nice,” Peter says approvingly. “That was three, Jon.”

Hot shame washes over Jon, and disbelief as he contemplates the size of Martin’s hands, hands he’s spent long hours staring at.  _ Three.  _ Some greedy part of him wonders how many more he can take. Wants to find out right now. Peter promised him his whole fist, but that seems impossible. 

A cool hand brushes against his thigh, trailing up to meet Martin’s. Jon feels another push, a slight stretch, and sighs. To his surprise, it’s followed immediately by another, and he tenses apprehensively. Peter pats his hip like he would a startled horse. 

“Relax, pet. We’ve got you.” 

The words shouldn’t mean anything to him, not coming from Peter, but his body instinctively calms, and the fingers slide in deeper. Peter makes a pleased sound. 

“Lovely,” Peter murmurs, and Jon flushes at the praise, wishes it didn’t make his pulse flutter. To Martin, Peter says, “Why don’t you touch his cock? It looks lonely.” 

Martin’s fingers withdraw, but before Jon can feel empty, Peter slams in with what must be half his hand, making Jon cry out at the stretch. Then Martin palms his cock, and he can’t decide whether he wants to thrust forward or back. A frustrated whine escapes his throat, high and humiliating. 

_ “God, Jon…” _ Martin whispers heatedly. Jon hungers to kiss him, to fuck his way into his mouth, but he’s bound too tightly to do more than squirm. Martin’s thumb brushes the underside of his crown and makes him bite his lip so hard it bleeds. 

“None of that, now,” Peter says. “Martin, give him something to suck on.” 

Martin’s hand brushes Jon’s cheek before fingers pry at his lips. He sucks gratefully, tasting the salt and sweetness of Martin’s skin, swiping his tongue over the pads of his fingers. Martin’s breathing grows faster, and he thrusts deeper. 

Behind him, Peter is stroking his way further and further into Jon. His fingers, already thick, feel enormous as his thumb brushes against Jon’s rim. There’s no way it can fit inside him. It’s too much, he’ll never—

Martin’s hand finally closes around his cock, and Peter uses the momentary distraction to slip inside. Jon trembles at the feeling of it, the intense stretch, and Peter strokes his flank soothingly. 

“Y-you can stop if you need to,” Martin says shakily, still slowly fucking his mouth. “If it’s too much—”

Jon shakes his head. A strand of saliva escapes his mouth, dripping down his chin, but he refuses to stop sucking long enough to deal with it. Peter’s fingers—fuck,  _ five of them _ —slide deeper, until Jon feels what must be his knuckles just outside him. He hears the wet sound of more slick being poured, hisses at the coolness against his hole. 

“This is it,” Peter says, slowly twisting his hand so he rubs against Jon’s stretched rim. “If you can take this, you can take all of it. You  _ do  _ want all of it, don’t you?”

Jon groans around his mouthful of fingers, still drooling. It’s too much and it’s not enough, being filled from both ends while Martin strokes his cock with a maddening gentleness. There’s a moment of intense pressure, a surge of fear that he’s going to tear, followed by arousal at the idea that he  _ might,  _ and then Peter’s pushing his way into him, and Jon feels his knuckles slip inside, and whimpers loudly. 

“Christ, you’re tight,” Peter murmurs, squeezing his hip. 

Jon’s whole body feels taut, his spine arched, muscles trembling. He’s never felt so full in his life, held open with all his secrets exposed, vulnerable to Peter’s whims. Peter could break him like this, easily, and without regret. The thought makes his cock throb with need. If Peter moves, Jon thinks he’ll shatter like so many shards of glass. 

Peter pushes in, slowly and inexorably, bringing Jon past what he thought was his limit, and still he trembles. His body grips Peter tight, as if terrified of losing him. 

“Look at you. You took it all the way to the wrist.” 

Jon recalls the size of Peter’s hands, and bites down on Martin’s fingers. Martin doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the sound he makes. Before Jon can adjust, Peter’s moving again, fucking him slowly with his fist, filling him beyond what he was ever meant to take, and it’s so good he could weep. The desperate throbbing of his cock, Martin’s gentle hand on him, his teeth clamped around Martin’s fingers, all of it fades into the background. The only thing he can feel is Peter, moving inexorably inside him, waves of intense pressure and aching, painful ecstasy, filling him beyond his capacity to comprehend. His body rocks back and forth with the slow motions, hanging limp and trembling, moaning and drooling around the digits in his mouth. 

It seems to go on for a long time as Jon hangs suspended, floating in a sea of sensation that fills and surrounds and suffuses him. He loses all sense of time, so he has no idea how long it is before he hears Peter speaking to him. 

“I think you’ve had enough, don’t you? You don’t want to be greedy.” 

Jon shakes his head, whimpering, no, god, it could never be enough, he’ll take Peter to the elbow if he can, beg Peter to split him open and take him apart, down to a quivering mass of muscle and nerves so he’s nothing but blood and meat and sensation. Peter clucks his tongue disapprovingly. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to make a judgment call, as the responsible adult in the room. You can’t keep my hand in your greedy hole all day. Martin wants to get fucked too, you know.”

As Peter begins to ease his hand back out, the sense of loss that washes over Jon is overwhelming, a hollow grief at knowing he’ll never be this filled and contented again. A deep sob rips its way out of his chest, and more follow it, his whole body shaking as tears run down his cheeks. Peter’s hand stretches and stretches him as it withdraws, his hole clenching in distress while Peter runs a gentling hand over his hip. 

“There’s a good boy,” he says, “Relax a bit for me, eh?” 

“It’s okay, Jon,” Martin murmurs to him, pressing his fingers deeper into Jon’s mouth, his throat, past his gag reflex, while his other hand strokes Jon’s face. Martin leans in and kisses the tears from his cheeks, while Jon breathes noisily around his fingers, relaxing at Martin’s calming, reassuring touch. A final burning stretch and Peter’s hand comes out of him in a slippery rush. Jon groans, loud and bereft, feeling empty and wrung out and hopeless. Peter pats his arse familiarly, runs a couple of fingers around the stretched rim of his hole, teasing and pinching so Jon whimpers. 

“There, there,” Peter tells him. “It’s not so bad. As a reward for being such a hungry little slut, you get to come. Martin—do you want Jon to come down your throat or over your face?” 

“Both?” Martin ventures, and Peter laughs. 

“Clever lad. All right, then, why don’t you get down there and finish him off?”

Peter keeps teasing Jon’s sensitive hole with his fingers while Martin crawls beneath his bowed body, crouching at a painful angle so he can close his lips around the head of Jon’s cock. Jon whines at the wet warmth of Martin’s mouth, so soft and careful, easing onto him inch by inch. Martin’s hair tickles against his belly, and Martin’s mouth is a balm, hot and perfect, his tongue bathing Jon’s aching cock. The gentle sensations are almost torturous after how roughly Jon’s been used, Martin lapping delicately at the head and sucking softly down the shaft, making sweet, hungry little noises as he goes. 

“Please, Martin,” he whispers, “Please, please…” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for anymore, his head lolling on his neck, his hole twitching faintly as Peter’s fingers stroke and pinch. Martin groans and sucks him deeper, one hand resting on Jon’s hip, the other gently caressing Jon’s balls, and Jon falls into the rhythm, rocking shallowly into Martin’s wet, hot mouth as his arousal builds and builds.

“Martin…” he warns as he feels orgasm sweeping over him. “I’m going to—” 

Martin grasps Jon’s shaft in his hand and sucks hard at the head, and Jon comes, longer and harder than he thought possible, jerking and whimpering desperately. Martin’s lips and tongue and cheek are rubbing against his cock, and Martin kisses and sucks him gently until Jon is whining with overstimulation. Martin comes back up from beneath him, his face flushed and painted with Jon’s come, his eyes bright with desire. He licks his lips, pearly sheened, and then glances over Jon’s shoulder at Peter. 

“Can I—?” He hesitates. 

“Yes, Martin, you can share. As long as you’re gentle about it.”

Martin nods, licking his lips again, and then leans forward and kisses Jon. His tongue presses past Jon’s lips, twining with his, sharing the bitter, salty flavor of Jon’s come. Martin kisses him soft and deep and Jon yearns into it, everything he’s ever wanted, as Martin’s hands cradle his face gently. 

This can’t last forever, he knows, but Jon will savor all he can while it does. 


	5. Stanza V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin's hunger grows more difficult to control. Peter's going to have to get a lot more creative with his punishments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to CaesarVulpes for their lovely suggestion of tongue piercing! We absolutely could not resist it once you brought it up. On that note, special cw for this chapter with regards to said tongue piercing. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! We adore everyone who has taken the time to read, leave kudos, share, and/or comment on this piece! We had no idea people would be so kind or that the fic would be so well-received. You guys are pervier than we dared to imagine. <3

Wiping his hand on the sheets, Peter watches his boys share a soft and filthy kiss, with Jon licking his come from Martin’s face and mouth. The two are utterly besotted with each other; watching the fallout from their little adventure will be the most entertainment he’s had in years. Not to mention the more carnal satisfaction he’s had already. He’s sure Elias will demand a thorough report later.

Of course, the two are quite a handful. Peter’s all but lost count of the number of times they’ve come, and they’re in desperate need of discipline. A lesser man would have shriveled from the challenge. Even with his patron’s gifts, Peter’s strength is beginning to flag. 

He spares a glance at Martin. The boy is definitely looking the worse for wear. It’s been so long since Peter had to worry about such petty concerns as dehydration that he didn’t think to feed or water the poor thing. 

“Time out,” he declares, pulling Martin’s hands behind his back to bind his wrists. He spares him an affectionate pat on the arse. “Hands to yourselves, you, too. First one to move gets tossed into the Lonely to wank for the rest of the evening.”

Martin whimpers but stays put. Peter gives them a final stern look before leaving the room. 

He keeps a well-stocked kitchen, though he rarely uses it. There he finds bottled water, hand towels, and an assortment of fruit. He doubts they’re up to anything more complex. Jon’s diet is far more... _ specialized, _ these days, but he’ll have to make do with food; it’s not as if Peter keeps a stock of statements in the pantry. 

To his satisfaction, neither of his boys have moved, though they’re busy making cow eyes at each other from across the bed. He uncaps one of the bottles and takes a slug, conscious of their eyes following his every movement. Then he turns and splashes Martin across the face. Martin splutters as Peter takes a towel and wipes away the worst of the blood and come. 

“That’s better,” Peter says. “Now open up.”

Grabbing a handful of Martin’s hair, he tilts his head back and pours the water into his mouth, watching his throat work as he swallows. 

“Good boy,” Peter praises, pressing a firm red grape against Martin’s lips. Martin opens for him again, sucking the fruit into his mouth and chewing slowly. He licks the next from Peter’s fingers, tongue brushing against the pads. Peter strokes his hair appreciatively. 

“More?” he asks, and Martin nods eagerly. 

There’s something enjoyable about feeding his sweet assistant, having him helpless and reliant on Peter for his most basic needs. His lips are soft and pliant against Peter’s hand. It’ll do well for him to have something in his stomach besides come. 

When Peter turns to offer water to Jon, he shakes his head. 

“I’m not thirsty,” Jon complains. Martin shoots him a concerned look. 

“I wasn’t asking,” Peter says flatly. 

Peter takes more pleasure in dousing Jon, enjoying the outraged expression when the water hits him. He looks like nothing so much as an affronted cat. There’s nothing to stop Peter from cleaning him with rough swipes of the towel, from grabbing his hair and pouring the water down his throat. Jon isn’t prepared, and he chokes a bit before he remembers to swallow. 

“Eat,” Peter orders, and Jon takes a bite of strawberry with a withering look. Peter pats his cheek hard, just short of a slap. 

Peter takes a few minutes to make sure they’re both adequately fed and watered. He’s not much accustomed to caretaking, nor particularly fond of it either, but he can offer this much for necessity’s sake. He finishes his own water and sets the bottle aside, then claps his hands together.

“Okay,” he says, “Break’s over.” He disregards Jon, who’s still scowling with embarrassed annoyance at the indignity of it all, and turns to Martin. His assistant looks less wilted after the food and water, and Peter thinks he’s ready for the next round.

Peter leans down to suck a nipple ring into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the hot, tender flesh. Martin moans throatily, writhing under his mouth. Peter moves over to give his other nipple equal attention, licking and biting until Martin is whimpering. 

“Your Archivist has been taking all the attention, greedy boy,” Peter tells him. “It’s time we took care of you a bit, sweetheart. Would you like my cock in you again?”

“Yes, Peter,  _ please,” _ Martin moans. His lovely pink cock is stiffening again, and Peter gives it a little stroke to encourage it. Martin gives a soft sigh, a bright flush spreading from his face down across his throat and his freckled chest. Peter grasps a handful of his soft curls, and pulls Martin’s head down to his groin, where his own cock is stirring. Martin doesn’t resist, goes eagerly, his lips parting to take Peter in his mouth. He uses his grip to move Martin as he wants, the hot, wet depths of the boy’s mouth engulfing him, snuffling through his nose as Peter’s cock hardens, filling his mouth entirely. Peter rolls his hips, pushing deeper, and holds Martin in place while he fucks his throat. 

After a few minutes, Peter pulls out of Martin’s mouth, and eases him back upright, smiling at his flushed face and dazed expression, and at his wet pink mouth. 

“Lovely thing,” says Peter, stroking his cheek, and Martin leans into it. “Spread your legs for me a bit, will you?” Martin does, enthusiastically, leaning back with his cock thrusting up eagerly, the head already slicked with pre-come. Peter pours some lubricant over his fingers and pushes his hand down between Martin’s thighs, under his balls, pressing them against his hole. 

“Still nice and stretched for me,” Peter says, nudging two fingers easily inside him, Martin’s hips canting up with a soft whine. “Not as stretched as Jon, of course. But you’ll open up easily for my cock, won’t you?”

“Yes, Peter…” Martin’s hole clasps his fingers tightly as Peter fucks him, sliding a third finger inside as Martin groans and shivers. Once he’s slicked and stretched to Peter’s liking, he withdraws his fingers and strokes lube over his own cock. He spares a glance for Jon, who’s staring at them with dark, hungry eyes, his lips parted and panting quietly, his cock half hard just from watching them. Peter really does enjoy the Archivist like this; Elias doesn’t know what he’s missing. 

“Behave yourself, Jon,” Peter tells him, “Like a good little slut, and maybe I’ll hurt you again, just the way you like.” Jon swallows and nods slowly, his pupils dilated with desire. Peter chuckles, and shifts back so he’s sitting against the cold metal of the bed frame, stretching his legs out. He pats his thighs invitingly, and Martin crawls into his lap as quickly as he can manage with his hands bound behind him. His cock brushes up against Peter’s and he moans, his hips thrusting instinctively, sliding their erections together. 

“Hey, none of that.” Peter reaches down and pinches sharply at the crease of his inner thigh, hard enough to bruise. Martin whimpers. “Remember rule two—I decide how and when you get touched.”

“S-sorry, Peter.”

Peter smiles indulgently, and grasps Martin’s hips, hoisting him easily and settling him with Peter’s cock nudging at his entrance. He pushes inside with a single, long stroke, Martin sinking down onto his cock, moaning deliciously with his head tilted back. Peter allows himself a satisfied sigh as Martin’s arse swallows his cock, all the way to the root, with far more ease than when Peter fucked him earlier. Martin’s body is such an eager, welcoming thing. 

Martin's brow furrows with pleasure as Peter starts to fuck up into him, his mouth hanging open and his face flushed prettily. Peter can't help kissing him, letting Martin whimper into his mouth as Peter sucks on his tongue. Peter lets his teeth tease the swollen cut on Martin's lip, opening it once more so the blood runs into both their mouths, and Martin groans deep and hungry at the pain. 

“Such a filthy little whore,” Peter murmurs, pushing Martin back and grabbing his hips hard, slamming into him so Martin's body jerks with his thrusts, his cock bobbing, leaking steadily. 

_ “Yes,” _ Martin moans, throwing his head back to expose his soft white throat. The sight makes Peter growl, leaning forward to nip the tender skin, leaving violet bruises. Martin tightens deliciously around him. “Peter, I need—”

Peter seizes him by the hair, pulling him in for a filthy, messy kiss, never stopping his rhythm, as Martin gasps helplessly into his mouth. Martin loses his balance, falling forward against Peter’s shoulder, mouthing at his chest, his neck, the join of his shoulder, before his teeth sink in hard, splitting the skin. 

Martin groans and laps at the blood that flows from the wound before Peter can push him away. His mouth is stained red, and he licks Peter’s blood from his lips, staring hungrily. He’s surprisingly lovely like this, but Peter can’t forgive the breach in discipline. Pulling Martin off his cock, Peter backhands him so hard he falls back onto the bed, staring up at Peter in confusion. 

“What did I say?”

Martin licks his lips with a dreamy look on his face, then shakes himself. His eyes grow wide with horror. “I—oh, my god, Peter! I’m so sorry!”

Peter positions himself over Martin, bracing a hand over his throat. 

“No,” Peter says menacingly. “But you will be.” 

He presses down on Martin’s neck, slowly at first, until understanding dawns on his face, and he begins to panic. There’s not much he can do, however, with his hands bound and Peter’s weight pinning him against the bed. His mouth gapes uselessly, gasping for air that won’t come, and tears leak from the corners of his eyes. Peter grinds his hips against Martin, feeling his cock stir as fear melds into lust. 

“Peter,  _ stop!” _ Jon shouts. 

Peter spares him a glance, letting up just enough for Martin to cough. Jon’s eyes are wide with panic, and he’s straining against his bonds. 

“Do you have something to say?” Peter asks, raising a brow. He presses down on Martin’s throat again, moving his hips in slow circles before leaning down to claim his lips. Martin squirms against him eagerly. 

“You’re going to hurt him!” 

“That’s rather the point,” Peter says, pinching Martin’s torn lip between his thumb and forefinger until blood drips down his chin. Martin’s tongue darts out to lave Peter’s thumb. 

Jon’s face grows determined. He swallows hard, clearly having come to a decision. 

“Eli—”

Martin shakes his head violently, dislodging Peter’s hand from his mouth. Peter allows him a breath, then another, though his hand stays on his throat. 

“Do  _ you  _ want to stop, sweetheart?” Peter asks, brushing a tear-soaked lock of hair from his face.

“No,” Martin pants, tilting his head back to expose his throat even further. “Please don’t make him stop, Jon…”

“Lovely boy,” Peter praises, leaning down to kiss him again. His lips taste of salt and copper. “How would you like Jon to choke you? Hmm?”

_ “Please!”  _ Martin begs, turning his head to face Jon.

Jon’s eyes are dark with longing, his body tightly coiled and straining closer. Peter unbinds his hands, placing them carefully on Martin’s neck, showing him where to press. The look that passes between the two is so full of trust and affection Peter considers being jealous, but he ultimately discards the idea. What he’s getting is better: all the fun with none of the unpleasantness of intimacy. 

“Now,” Peter orders, watching carefully as Jon presses on Martin’s throat. He’s poised to intervene if the Archivist gets carried away, but he doubts Jon will. The greatest danger seems to be allowing them to bite and tear; the lure of flesh transmuted to  _ meat.  _ Still, he’d hate to have to train a new assistant. Especially when this one has been so biddable. 

* * *

Martin’s so aroused he can’t stand it, arse still slick from having Peter inside him, cheek stinging from the slap, lip throbbing in time with his pulse. He’s still dizzy from being strangled, and Jon’s hands are warm around his neck, his eyes dark and fierce. Martin feels  _ owned _ in a way he never has before, and he doesn’t want it to stop, he thinks he might  _ die  _ if it stops. 

Jon presses down, and Martin’s vision goes hazy. All he can see is Jon’s eyes, the pupils blown wide with desire, boring into his with an intensity that steals Martin’s breath as surely as Jon’s hands. Their bodies are pressed together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, cocks hard and slick as Martin weakly thrusts against him. His lungs scream for air, but it feels so good. 

“That’s enough,” he hears Peter say distantly, and the pressure abates. Jon’s fingers stroke his neck as Martin takes deep, heaving breaths, allowed only by Jon’s mercy. 

“Beautiful,” Jon whispers, and Martin finds himself breathless for a different reason. 

“I think he can take a bit more, don’t you?” Peter asks, ignoring Martin entirely. Something about his dismissal makes Martin’s blood hot, being talked about as if he’s not even there. 

Jon’s eyes search his face. After a moment he seems to find what he’s looking for, and nods. 

“He can,” Jon agrees. 

Jon’s hands tighten around his throat once more, slowly, intimately. Martin is utterly lost in his gaze. His heart races as the pressure grows, as his lungs seize uselessly. Peter’s hands stroke his hair. Martin gasps for air, instinctively, saliva leaking from his mouth. Tears run down the sides of his face. He doesn’t want it to stop. Jon can do anything he wants, Martin doesn’t care, as long as he keeps touching him. Dark spots dance across his vision. It  _ hurts.  _

Finally Jon lets go, and Martin’s chest heaves, sucking in as much air as he can get. Relief courses through his body; nothing has ever tasted so sweet. Jon shifts against him, making their cocks slide against each other, and Martin whines high in his throat.

“Please fuck me,” he begs hoarsely. “I need it so badly, I’ll do anything…”

Jon shifts again and his cock slides down between Martin’s thighs. Martin moans and spreads his legs, yes, yes, he wants Jon inside him so badly, he wants Jon to fill him, to ruin him, to bruise him and bite him and dig under his skin. He wants things he can’t even name, things that make his blood pound in his ears and his body tremble, visions in crimson and salt and heat, raw muscle spasming in pleasure, tendons straining taut as violin strings until they snap in a staccato cascade of ecstasy. Martin knows these thoughts aren’t his, not really, and some part of him is terrified by them, but right now they feel like the only thing that makes sense. 

The hot, stiff head of Jon’s cock nudges between Martin’s buttocks, and Martin whimpers with anticipation as it brushes against his hole, teasing him, right before Jon is pulled away roughly, hissing in pain as Peter twists his arm behind his back savagely. Peter drags Jon back against him and bites down hard on the side of his neck, drawing a low moan. Peter smiles coldly at Martin over Jon’s shoulder, as Jon arches against him. 

“I feel I’ve been very indulgent,” he says. “Given you two greedy little tarts everything you’ve asked for. Even plenty you haven’t. But still you want more. What is it you want, again, Martin?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Martin tells him, shameless, not caring anymore how desperate he sounds, what Jon will think of him when this is all over. He needs this too much.

“Oh, you want  _ me  _ to fuck you?” Peter asks sharply. “Because only a moment ago it seemed as if you wanted  _ Jon _ to fuck you. So which is it, Martin?”

Martin whines with confusion and distress. Is there a right answer to this question? One that will get him filled up like he needs to be, so desperately? He wants Jon and he wants Peter, it doesn’t matter which of them, he just wants them to fuck him and  _ use _ him and fill him with their come, he wants…

“Peter, please,  _ god, _ whatever you want,  _ please!”  _

Peter yanks Jon’s arm sharply, and Jon leans into him, his whole body taut as a bow, the long line of his throat drawn back, marked by Peter’s teeth. His cock is hard, leaking pre-come steadily, and Martin aches for it. Peter smiles. 

“Can’t make a decision, eh? Well then, you get what you really want. Both of us are going to fuck that tight arse of yours until you scream.”

Martin goes dizzy with the rush of excitement. Both of them, does that mean one after the other, or—he  _ couldn’t— _

Before Martin can gather his thoughts, Peter pushes Jon back down on top of him, pressing down on Martin with their combined weight and kissing him soundly. Pinned between them, Jon moans into Martin’s shoulder, thrusting against his hip. The kiss leaves Martin unable to think, caught up in the warmth and the pressure and the slickness of Peter’s mouth. Afterwards he lets Peter arrange him like a doll, binding his hands together behind him, and draping him back over his lap. Martin feels a rush of desire at the sight of Peter’s blood oozing from the bite on his shoulder, but he resists the urge to lean in. Barely. He’s not going to risk losing the chance to get fucked again. 

Jon’s hands settle on his shoulders, startling him—he didn’t notice Peter unchaining his wrists. Peter grips Martin by the hips, and he’s sinking down again, feeling Peter’s thick cock nudging his hole before Peter shoves his way in, forcing him to take it to the hilt. Martin moans loudly, burying his face in Peter’s chest. 

Slim fingers slip between his cheeks, rubbing at the place where Peter’s body joins his, and realization hits. Peter’s going to make him take them both. His cock twitches with excitement at the thought of it, of both of them inside him, using him,  _ coming _ in him. He gasps as Jon breaches him with a single fingertip. It’s already more than Martin’s ever taken. 

Peter thrusts into him again, and Jon pushes a second finger in. The stretch is almost unbearable. 

“F-fuck,” Martin pants. “I can’t—”

“You  _ will,”  _ Peter assures him, rolling his hips against Martin’s and making him shiver. 

Jon shushes him gently, brushing kisses against the back of his neck, and he calms a bit. He’s still acutely aware of how much he’s being stretched. After a few moments, Jon moves again, carefully thrusting his fingers into Martin’s body. 

Martin whimpers when he feels the third finger brush against his entrance. 

“J-jon—”

“Please, Martin,” Jon begs, voice ragged with need. “I need you,  _ please _ let me—”

The sound of Jon pleading goes straight to Martin’s cock. 

“Do it,” he says recklessly, and Jon pushes his fingers in. Martin tries to force himself to relax, to take it, but it’s so  _ much,  _ he can barely breathe. Peters reaches between them to stroke his cock, and Martin gasps, distracted enough that Jon slides in the rest of the way, as Peter keeps fucking him. 

“Peter!” Martin cries, hands clenching behind his back. He’s so, so full, fuller than he’s ever been, fuller than he should be, it’s too much—

“Do you want us to stop?” Peter asks, giving Martin’s cock a firm squeeze and making him moan.

“N-no!”

Peter looks over Martin’s shoulder at Jon, nodding. “He’s ready.” 

Martin’s almost certain he isn’t ready, will  _ never  _ be ready, but Jon’s already pulling out, leaving him bereft. Peter lifts Martin until his cock is just barely inside him, and Martin feels Jon’s nudging against him. Slowly, Jon pushes in, stretching Martin so wide he feels he might break. It hurts, but Martin wants all of it,  _ needs  _ it with an urgency that frightens him. His eyes sting as Jon stretches him open, until he’s finally seated, and Martin is painfully, gloriously  _ full.  _

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Peter breathes, leaning forward to kiss him breathless. Every movement makes Martin’s breath hitch. 

As soon as Peter pulls back, Jon’s leaning in, making Martin twist so he can claim his lips, his mouth hot and needy, teeth scraping against Martin’s lip. 

Then one of them moves, and Martin cries out loud. Jon’s hands stroke his face and hair as they move in counterpoint, fucking him so thoroughly he can barely stand it. Jon’s breath is ragged in his ear as he moves, slowly, relentlessly, his cock sliding against Peter’s with each thrust. Martin whimpers at the heat of it inside him. 

“I knew you could take it,” Peter praises, pulling Martin farther onto his cock, onto both of them. Martin clenches instinctively against the intrusion, and Peter groans appreciatively, while Jon’s hands tighten in Martin’s hair. 

“Martin...” Jon moans, shuddering against him. Martin rolls his hips just to hear the sound it knocks out of him, until Peter squeezes his arse hard with both hands. 

“Little tease,” Peter growls, and begins fucking him in earnest. 

Jon sets his speed to match, grabbing Martin’s hips for leverage, until Martin has no choice but to take what they give him, to let them fuck their way into him as they please, using him like a toy. Without his arms to balance, he falls forward against Peter’s chest, moaning helplessly as they thrust into him. 

He’s not sure which of them takes hold of his cock, jerking him with rough strokes until he’s wailing out loud, unable to find the words to beg, and suddenly he’s clenching down on them both, coming all over Peter’s chest and belly. Even then, they don’t stop, driving into him with single-minded focus, and he whimpers loudly, over-stimulated but unwilling to stop. 

The two of them whisper filthy praise in his ear, harsh and guttural, and he's so overwhelmed he barely knows who's speaking.

_ "Perfect—" _

_ "Fuck, you take it well—" _

_ "—so tight—" _

_ "—little whore—" _

Tears run down his face as they drive into his oversensitized hole. His body shakes with the force of their thrusts. Teeth sink into the flesh over his shoulder blade, and he screams in ecstasy, his cock already trying to harden again. Hot blood drips down his back, and he squirms, caught between the men burying themselves in his body. He feels euphoric, rapturous, a pure vessel of flesh for them to fill with their desire, to use and consume and discard. Jon’s teeth are buried in the meat of his back and the pain and heat of it are bliss, Jon’s tongue laving the torn flesh, lapping the blood from his skin. 

Peter’s hands clamp tightly on his hips, nails digging in hard, his thrusts growing deeper, more aggressive, driving into Martin in a way that’s becoming thrillingly familiar. Peter growls in his ear, the sound rumbling in his chest and shivering through Martin’s limp body, and Peter slams into him once, twice, three times. Martin feels come spurting inside him, filling him slick and hot, making him moan with need. 

Jon whines against Martin’s shoulder, loving Martin with his mouth even as his thrusts grow faster, the slick of Peter’s come easing his way, Peter’s cock still buried inside Martin with Jon’s sliding against it. Jon’s arms are around him, holding him close, and he is gasping soft words against the opened flesh of Martin’s shoulder, murmuring secrets to his blood, telling Martin he’s perfect and beautiful and Jon wants to be inside him forever. Martin has never been so happy in his life, with Jon’s teeth in his flesh and his cock splitting him open, he never wants this to end, never wants to be apart from Jon again. Jon’s hips stutter and his arms tighten around Martin.

“Martin…” he moans, and then he is coming, his cock jerking sweetly, flooding Martin hot with Jon’s seed, so full he could burst with joy.

“I love you,” Martin gasps helplessly, “I love you!”

Jon whines and keeps thrusting into him even as his cock softens, biting down harder. Martin feels the meat of his back split wider, groans in pleasure at the feeling, his cock already throbbing again with the hot pulse of blood, and then Peter is pushing him roughly up and off his cock, tumbling both of them back onto the mattress. Peter’s expression is dark, his eyes furious as an ocean storm. 

“What did I say about biting?” he thunders, and swings his arm down, backhanding Jon hard across the face. Jon cries out, and Peter hits him again, then snatches a handful of his hair and drags him off the bed, flinging him onto the floor. Peter stands over him, and when Jon tries to get up, Peter pins him in place with a foot on his throat. Jon’s hands scrabble at Peter’s leg as he gasps uselessly for breath. This isn’t like earlier, when Peter held Jon underfoot with careless amusement. Peter is  _ angry, _ Martin realizes. Peter might really hurt Jon, might really hurt both of them, and the realization sends fear and arousal spiking hot through him. 

“Peter, stop…” he pleads, because whatever terrible punishment is coming should be his. He’ll take it all, whatever Peter wants to do to him. He imagines Peter whipping him again, beating him, burying his fist in Martin’s arse the way he did to Jon. The visions swim hot in his mind as Peter removes his foot from Jon’s throat, and rolls him over roughly to bind his hands behind his back. He leaves Jon gasping on the floor and turns to Martin. 

“I’m very disappointed, Martin. You let him do that to you. You  _ encouraged _ him.” Martin quakes, knowing he’s brought this on himself, on both of them. He let Jon do it, he  _ wanted _ him to. His body throbs pleasurably where Jon’s teeth sank in, marking him,  _ owning _ him. His arse aches where the two of them filled him, used him, and he can feel their come leaking out of his stretched, tender hole, slicking his arse and thighs. The sensations are so arousing he’s dizzy with it, breathless at the thought of what Peter might do next. 

He doesn’t resist as Peter attaches his wrist and ankle cuffs together, leaving him bound and helpless on his side. Peter’s fingers pry his mouth open roughly, and a cold metal ring pushes in to sit behind Martin’s teeth. It feels huge, stretching his mouth painfully, and metal hooks splay out over his face so he can’t twist or turn the ring. Once the gag is seated, Peter slips three fingers inside, stroking roughly over Martin’s tongue. 

“There,” he says, “If you two can’t restrain yourselves, then I’ll do it for you.” The fingers push deeper, into the back of Martin’s mouth and even further as his throat works helplessly. Martin’s teeth want to clamp shut, to  _ bite _ , but they can’t, all he can do is lie there as Peter finger fucks his throat with a satisfied expression. Martin feels saliva welling up around Peter’s fingers, drooling out of the corners of his mouth with no way for him to stop it. He’s utterly helpless to Peter’s whims, and the knowledge makes him moan softly. Peter strokes his hair, pulling the fingers out of his throat. 

“This is all for your own good, sweetheart,” he says solemnly, then turns back to Jon. “Now, what are we going to do with you?”

* * *

Peter starts to regret his outburst almost immediately. He knows better than to lose his temper in this situation; it’s pointless, like getting angry at an animal for following its instincts. The Flesh demands to be fed, and the longer these two stay under its influence, the stronger the urge becomes. But having it happen right in front of him, because he wasn’t paying attention, too busy chasing his own pleasure… Well, he’s really more angry at himself than at either of the boys. 

Peter’s been drawing this out for his own entertainment—and it has been  _ very _ entertaining—but it’s time to stop playing around. 

Martin is sprawled on the bed, sweet and pliant, drooling helplessly around the gag in his mouth. He’ll do whatever Peter wants without trouble. Jon, however, is squirming on the ground, defiant once again. Peter was sure he’d beaten and bled all the fire out of the Archivist, but the boy has a streak of stubbornness a mile wide. It would be endearing, if it wasn’t so annoying. Jon bares his teeth in a snarl as Peter crouches beside him, pink with Martin’s blood. Peter sighs. 

“You know, you could have really hurt Martin back there,” he says, patiently. “And he doesn’t heal the way you do. You don’t want to hurt him, do you, Jon? Not really.”

“I want—” Jon is panting, his pupils blown wide, his cheeks flushed with desire. “I want to— No! No, of course not!” He shakes his head fiercely, blinking. Peter pats his cheek, enjoying the flare of anger in Jon’s eyes at the condescension.

“Good boy,” he says. “So you’re going to behave, aren’t you? You’re going to let me take care of you both.” Jon flushes with what might be shame or pleasure, and he nods weakly. 

“Yes, Peter.” 

Peter smiles. It really is so easy to control Jon; all he needs to know is that it’s for Martin’s sake, and he’ll go along with almost anything. If Elias hadn’t foolishly disregarded Martin for so long, he would have had much more luck handling his Archivist. Elias’ oversight is Peter’s fortune, however; he couldn’t have asked for a better, sluttier assistant. 

Jon’s eyes widen when Peter holds up a second ring gag. 

“Open up,” Peter suggests pleasantly, and Jon does, though his eyes are still defiant as Peter secures the strap at the back of his head. The gag stretches Jon’s mouth obscenely, exposing his soft, pink tongue, the source of so many of his troubles. The sight gives Peter an idea. 

“Maybe if I put a spike through that wicked tongue of yours, you’ll behave.” 

Jon’s breath hitches, and he moans softly. Peter grins and reaches for his case. He doesn’t have to look to know Martin is watching him intently as he rummages for his tools. 

“Give me your tongue,” Peter orders, and Jon hesitantly sticks it out. Peter grabs it roughly, rubbing his thumb over the tender flesh before securing the clamp. He can already see Jon’s breath coming faster.

The needle he chooses is larger than is strictly necessary, but Jon will heal fairly quickly. He makes a show of opening it slowly, holding it up directly in front of Jon’s eye just to see him shiver. 

“You’d let me put this anywhere I want, wouldn’t you?” 

Jon inhales sharply, closing his eyes; it’s all the answer Peter needs. 

“Now hold still,” Peter argues. “You wouldn’t want me to miss.”

He takes his time sliding the needle through Jon’s tongue, savoring the low, drawn-out whimper he makes. The flesh parts for him eagerly. Finally the needle pops through the other side, and Peter pulls the bar through and screws on the bead, which has a stylized eye design. A bit of a joke on his part, though he doubts Jon will keep it. By the time Peter finishes, Jon is breathing hard, his cock already at half mast. 

“Did you like that?” Peter asks, stroking Jon’s cheek gently. 

Jon nods, leaning into the contact, until Peter pulls back and slaps him hard. 

“You filthy little slut. That was meant to be a  _ punishment.”  _ He grabs a handful of Jon’s hair, forcing him to look up. “But I guess there’s no punishing you, is there? I bet you want more.”

Peter twists his hand, pulling the strands tight, and Jon whimpers, desire written in every line of his body. They’re past the time for half-measures, Peter realizes. The hunger is too strong. If he waits much longer, they’ll find another way to hurt each other. 

“Heel,” Peter orders, pointing from Martin to his feet. He doesn’t bother looking at him, just waits for his assistant to crawl obediently, cock already bobbing stiffly between his thighs. Peter spares a moment to be thankful for his foresight in installing plenty of restraints and mooring points in this room. It’s easy to arrange both men as he wants them, on their knees like penitent sinners, their legs splayed apart and their arses thrust up, hands firmly secured behind them. He leaves them facing each other, because he’s too tender hearted for his own good, and the two of them stare longingly at each other as Peter organizes the things he’ll need. 

It’s going to be a long night, but he’s well-prepared.


	6. Stanza VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin finally escape the book's hold. Can they handle what comes after?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really emotional moment for both of us. We've been floored by the response to this fic. We weren't sure what to expect when we started writing a 30k hard kink pwp, but it wasn't this. You guys have been amazing from the beginning, so encouraging and positive. We adore each and every person who has read, commented, reblogged, and/or left kudos. You are all _amazing_. 
> 
> As sad as we are to finish The Sacrament of Flesh, we're pleased to have more collabs coming in the future, plus solo stories from each of us. 
> 
> Stay tuned for a bonus post-credits scene!

Jon loses track of time, hours passing in a haze of need, of begging, tears, and blood. He stops counting how many times he’s come, ceases caring about petty concerns like dignity and morality, abandons himself wholly to the sensations of using and being used. The hunger grows inside him, and Jon gives it  _ everything.  _

He’s aware of a few things. Martin’s voice in his ear, whimpering, pleading for more. The gag in his mouth that keeps him from rending and tearing. Peter’s grip in his hair, hated but needed, a steadying force when his world is slipping into chaos and his vision goes red, red, red. 

Later he will recall only a few moments. Peter’s knife carving his skin, again and again, as he cries for more. Martin’s tongue cleaning him, prevented from biting by the ring of metal between his teeth. Peter binding him to Martin, front to front, slick skin pressed together, as he fills them both with his fists; they tremble, full to bursting, an ouroboros of desperation. Martin’s lips sliding against his, drooling against his skin, and it’s so good Jon could weep, and he does. 

At one point, as Peter is flogging him without mercy or respite, beautiful agony dancing across his torn and bleeding skin, Jon wonders hysterically if this is all there is now, forever. If there was ever a time he felt anything other than tearing hunger and need to consume, to be consumed, to claw and rend until they’re nothing but raw flesh. If there was, he can't remember it now.

Finally,  _ finally,  _ the hunger begins to fade, almost as abruptly as it began. The atmosphere in the room changes palpably, and Peter sags against Jon’s back, panting. 

“Thank fuck,” he mutters. “You two could kill an old man.”

Jon doesn’t even have the strength to roll his eyes. 

Peter unbinds them with shaky hands, directing Jon into Martin’s arms, where he curls contentedly, before tossing a blanket over them both and bidding them to stay where they are. As if either of them could move. 

“All right?” Jon slurs into Martin’s ear, nuzzling into the warm spot between his neck and shoulder. 

“Mmm,” Martin mumbles, dropping a kiss against Jon’s hair. 

They both grumble when Peter pulls them out of bed, tossing Jon over his shoulder like a sack of grain and leading Martin with an arm around his waist. Jon finally understands when they arrive at their destination: an opulent bathroom with an enormous claw-foot tub. Fragrant steam rises from the surface of the water. Peter dumps Jon in without ceremony, ignoring his spluttering, before climbing in with Martin. Jon can’t believe the man owns a tub large enough for all three of them, but of fucking course he does. 

The hot water makes the cuts on his back sting with pain alone. Peter sponges him off, ignoring his hisses of discomfort. 

“There, there, you’ll be good as new in no time,” Peter says. Martin’s slumped against Peter’s hairy chest, eyes half-closed with pleasure. 

Between the three of them, they manage to get reasonably clean. Martin needs help washing his hair, as his arms are sore, and Jon pretends not to love every moment he spends scrubbing his scalp, rubbing the silky strands and watching Martin melt into the warmth and comfort. It takes everything he has not to kiss him again. It seems...wrong, somehow, in a way it didn’t just minutes before. 

Afterwards Peter pats them both dry, bandaging the bite over Martin's shoulder blade and giving him a handful of pills to swallow. Jon's pulse races guiltily at the sight of Martin's torn skin. It will scar, Jon thinks, an indelible reminder of Jon's touch. A piece of Jon that Martin will never be able to erase. 

He's distracted from his thoughts when Peter leads them to bed. To his relief, it’s not the one they just left, which must be absolutely filthy with their...well, everything. He and Martin help each other under the covers, curling up together tightly. 

Peter turns to leave before Martin latches onto this arm stubbornly. 

“Stay,” he demands sleepily. 

Peter’s face goes strangely blank. Martin’s grip doesn’t budge. After a long moment, Peter sighs. 

“As if you two weren’t needy enough,” he grumbles, joining them under the covers, on the side of Martin that Jon isn’t latched onto. He scoops Martin against his broad chest, pulling Jon against them both, before lifting the blankets to Jon’s chin. 

Jon wants to protest, but then Martin gives a full-body sigh, relaxing into the both of them, and Jon doesn’t have the heart to deprive him. Martin brushes his lips against Jon’s hair again. 

“Love you,” Martin murmurs sleepily, eyes sliding shut.

“I’m flattered,” Peter says sardonically. 

Jon finally loses hold of wakefulness, falling into a dreamless sleep. 

* * *

Martin’s entire body aches when he wakes up, but he’s also incredibly warm. Groaning, he burrows against the source of his warmth. It’s surprisingly...pointy. Odd. Confused, he opens his eyes and finds himself staring at a scarred shoulder. 

To his horror, Martin realizes he’s been cuddling Jon Sims. While naked. The memory of what he’s done floods into him, filling him with shame. 

He tried so hard to hide his feelings from Jon, and look where that got him. The book must have known his desires, known how badly he wanted Jon to need him, and contaminated Jon with his greed.

Or else, the book just gave him an excuse to do what he really wanted, and he took it without a second thought. At least Jon  _ tried _ to resist; Martin fell right into this degradation as if he was made for it. 

And god, it had felt  _ good.  _ He’s too spent to get hard again, but his cock gives a minute twitch as he thinks about all the things Jon did to him, all the things Jon let him do. Jon’s lips against his, their tongues twining hungrily, teeth tearing into each other. He could have hurt Jon badly if Peter hadn’t intervened. He still remembers the taste of Jon’s blood in his mouth, his flesh ripping between Martin’s teeth. 

Worse are the warmer memories. Jon kissing him softly and sweetly, as if he’d never wanted anything else in his life. Jon trembling beneath him, trusting Martin with his need. Jon, Jon, Jon…

Tears well up in Martin’s eyes, and he stifles a sob. His limbs are too tangled with Jon’s for him to escape, but he can at least avoid waking him up, even if his body shakes with the force of his tears. 

He’s lost the only thing he ever wanted, before he even had it. 

To his horror, Jon begins to stir, pressing his bare skin against Martin’s as he stretches, then winces. He opens his eyes, looking down at Martin in sleepy confusion. 

“Martin,” he says softly. “Why are you crying?” 

Martin finally breaks down, turning to sob into the pillow while avoiding Jon’s eyes. His breath comes in short gasps, barely able to keep up with the force of his tears. Jon wraps himself around him, murmuring soothing nonsense Martin doesn’t deserve. 

“Was it Peter? Did he h…” Jon stops, obviously about to say,  _ hurt you,  _ before thinking better of it. 

“Wh-what? No!” 

Jon’s face darkens, and he looks away. 

“Then...it must be me. Martin, I’m so sorry.” 

That stops Martin in his tracks. He blinks in confusion, swiping at the tears on his face. 

“What...what are you going on about?” 

“I’m the one who lured you in,” Jon says bitterly. “Made you touch that book,  _ read  _ it, even when you were clearly uncomfortable! I put you in danger, dragged us into a deal with Peter Lukas—I nearly bit through your back. All because of my selfishness.”

“Jon, you couldn’t have known—”

“I wanted an excuse to see you!” Jon snaps. “I wanted—I…” 

Martin’s heart pounds in his chest, and he licks his lips nervously. “What...what did you want, Jon?” he asks gently. 

Jon’s eyes are bright with tears when he finally says, “I wanted  _ you.”  _

The words hit Martin like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of him. All he can do is stare at Jon in disbelief, because none of what he’s hearing makes sense. 

“I understand if you don’t want to see me again,” Jon says in a quiet, hollow voice. 

“Don’t you  _ dare,”  _ Martin says fiercely. “You don’t get to—to  _ do  _ that!”

“Do what?”

“Do that, that  _ thing  _ you do where everything’s your fault so you might as well be alone and miserable!” 

“It  _ is  _ my—”

“No!” Martin interrupts. “We got in this mess together. We can argue over whose fault it is later. But I don’t...  _ blame  _ you.”

Jon opens his mouth to respond, then thinks better of it, for once in his life, sagging against the bed with visible relief. 

“Did you—mean what you said?” Martin asks shyly. “About...wanting me?”

Jon swallows, looking away. “I—yes.”

“In the...romantic sense,” Martin clarifies. 

_ “Yes,” _ Jon says irritably, still not meeting his gaze. 

That won’t do. Martin reaches to cup Jon’s chin, lifting gently before leaning in to claim his lips. It’s not much, just a soft brush of mouths, but he can feel Jon shiver against him. Martin reaches to stroke Jon’s hair back from his face. Jon feels so small in his arms, so perfect, despite having what feels like a hundred sharp angles. Martin would love to hold him there forever, except he can’t, can he? He has a job to do, and he needs to be alone to do it. He’s sure Peter will already consider this a major lapse, although Peter did leave them here together. 

Maybe this is all right, for just a little while.

Jon’s eyes are already heavy lidded again, and Martin can’t deny that he’s still exhausted. He pulls Jon closer to his chest, and Jon squirms against him in a way that Martin would call  _ snuggling, _ if he could possibly associate that word with Jonathan Sims. With a contented sigh, Martin lets his eyes close again. Right now, he’s here, and Jon is safe in his arms. They can worry about the rest later.

* * *

Jon rouses for the second time, slowly, swimming up out of sleep with his eyes blinking blearily. At the sight of Peter Lukas standing over him, he jolts sharply awake. Martin makes a soft grumbling sound as Jon startles in his arms, and his eyes open as well.

“You two really are terrible house guests,” Peter remarks without malice. “You made a mess of one bed, spent fourteen hours sleeping in another,  _ and _ you’ve managed to ruin my plans for the Extinction.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon demands, sitting up. The skin on his back stretches painfully around wounds that seem to be healing slower than he would like. 

“Just look at the pair of you.” Peter gestures towards them as if that explains everything, wearing an expression of mild distaste. “That is... _ not _ isolation.”

“No, Peter, it’s okay, I can still do it!” Martin sits up as well, wincing with pain. His back is covered in bruises and welts, his shoulder still bandaged where Jon’s teeth sank in. He still, Jon notes, has the rose gold rings in his nipples. Peter sighs dramatically.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. Voluntary isolation only works if you  _ want _ it to—and you did, for a while. But now it looks as if I’ll have to find another way to stop the emergence.”

“So you're just...letting him go?” asks Jon, incredulous.

“I was never  _ keeping _ him in the first place.” Peter seems offended by the thought. “It's always been Martin's choice, and it looks as if he's made a different one.”

“There has to be a way,” Martin pleads. He looks upset, and Jon can't blame him. Although his own heart is leaping at the thought of Martin’s return, he knows how long and hard Martin has worked, how much he's given up to keep them all safe. And now Jon's taken that from him. Peter shrugs.

“I’ll find another way,” he says. “Or I won't, and the world will end. You have to be philosophical about these things, I’ve been told.”

“I know it’s terribly beneath you,” Jon says sarcastically. “But you could try actually  _ cooperating _ with us. We don’t want the world to end either, you know.” 

“Hmm, I’ll think about it.” The distaste on Peter’s face is no longer mild, but his eyes narrow thoughtfully at Jon’s words. He turns to Martin and shakes his head sadly. 

“You would have made a lovely servant of Forsaken,” he says. Then he leans across Jon to cup Martin’s cheek and press a lingering kiss to his lips. Martin looks flushed when he pulls back, his lips parted, and Jon fights down the wave of jealousy that comes over him. After everything they did yesterday, it’s ridiculous to be jealous of a single kiss. But he is. Peter straightens up again and smirks at Jon. 

“I had your clothes cleaned, and there’s a car waiting in the garage that will take you back to the Institute. Or wherever you want.”

“Thank you, Peter,” says Martin. He nods shortly.

“I don’t know who left you that book, Archivist, but you should consider whether this was the outcome they wanted. And for what purpose. I’ll be in touch. Maybe. I haven't forgotten that you owe me a favor.”

At that he turns and walks out of the room, leaving them alone again. Jon glances at Martin, who’s smiling shyly at him. 

“I, uh, I suppose we ought to get dressed,” he says, though really he’d much rather curl back into Martin’s embrace. Probably a bad idea to linger under Peter’s roof when they’ve been invited to leave, however. He slips from beneath the covers and finds his clothes freshly laundered and folded on a chair. Martin comes up behind him and makes a soft sound of distress, his fingers gently touching Jon’s back. 

“That looks...really painful.”

“It’s not bad,” Jon says, and it’s only half a lie. He’s had worse. “And I heal fast.” He pulls on his shirt, only wincing a little at the stretch across his back. Martin dresses slowly, obviously stiff and sore. Jon can’t help watching him, and sees Martin casting him little glances, his lower lip caught in his teeth. He looks as if he’s trying to make a decision about something.

“Jon…” Martin says eventually. Jon shakes his head quickly.

“Let’s wait until we’re out of here, then we can talk.” 

Peter is nowhere to be seen as they depart, which is only to be expected. Jon thinks the black car waiting for them might be the same one from yesterday, but he’s not much good at cars, and they were rather...distracted, last time. His face heats at the memory as he climbs onto the wide leather seat. Martin sits at the other end of the seat from him, looking hesitant, until Jon sighs and closes the gap between them. He takes Martin’s hand in his and squeezes it.

“I know you sacrificed a lot to try and keep everyone safe, working with Peter. But I—I can’t say I’m sorry that it’s over. That you’re coming back.”  _ Back to me, _ he doesn’t say, because even if he thinks it’s true, he hardly dares believe it. Martin’s hand squeezes back, and he gives a watery smile. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he agrees. “Even if Peter doesn’t come around, I think I know enough about what he was trying to do, at least as a starting point. Is, uh, is my desk in the Archives still free?”

“I think Basira’s been using it for extra storage, but we’ll sort something out. Not today, though. I think we could both use the rest of the day off, don’t you?”

“Yeah, that would be...good. I feel like I’ve been beaten with a sack of doorknobs. We’re not going to the Institute, then?”

“We need to call in, briefly. That book is still sitting in my office—hopefully nobody else has been in there since yesterday.” Martin’s eyes widen with alarm.

“Let’s hope so.”

* * *

Martin waits in the car while Jon jogs into the Institute, his gait stiff and uncomfortable. He's glad to stay outside; he's sure it would invite gossip, for him and Jon to arrive back together in the same clothes they wore yesterday, after the way they left yesterday. Martin feels a hot flush of embarrassment crawl up his neck at the recollection. Besides, this way they can be sure the driver won't leave.

Jon is gone for nearly ten minutes, which is a little worrying. The frown on his face when he returns doesn't inspire much confidence either. 

“What is it?” Martin asks when he clambers back into the luxurious interior of the car. 

“I couldn't find it. I asked the others, none of them saw it, and they say nobody else was downstairs since yesterday. None of them were in my office either.”

“Do you think Peter took it?” Jon scowls at the mention of Peter's name.

“It's certainly possible he could have pocketed it yesterday. We were, uh, rather distracted.”

“If he has it at least we know it's not, you know, out in the wild?”

“I suppose. If I'm honest I'm rather more concerned about where it came from in the first place.”

“Because of what Peter said.”

“I don't like being manipulated,” Jon says, “And I particularly don't like the idea that whoever left it was targeting you.” His eyes are dark and dangerous, and Martin feels a warm rush of pleasure at the thought of Jon being protective of him. He reaches over and takes Jon's hands again. It's beginning to feel natural, to twine Jon's slim fingers with his own.

“Let's worry about it tomorrow,” he suggests. “Like you said, rest of the day off?”

“Right…” Jon looks a little embarrassed. “I've been staying in the Archives, the past few months. I think the lease on my flat expired…”

“Come to mine,” asks Martin. “I'd rather not be alone right now.” It's not a lie, and it lets Jon accept the closeness that Martin thinks he must also crave, without having to ask for it. Heaven forbid Jonathan Sims ever think he has the right to ask for what he wants. 

Martin gives the address to the driver, and they sit together quietly for the rest of the drive. It's not an uncomfortable silence, but Martin knows Jon is probably thinking about the book, his brow furrowed seriously in a way that Martin finds rather sweet. And Martin...Martin is still too overwhelmed to really think about anything, other than preparing what he's going to say when they get to his.

“Do you want to come to bed?” was not precisely how he intended to phrase it, with Jon standing awkwardly in his living room and Martin trying to remember when he last changed his sheets (it's only been a couple of days, he's fairly sure). Jon gives him a startled look and goes faintly pink.

“I, umm…” he begins.

“To sleep!” Martin clarifies hastily. “I didn't mean—god, if anyone touches my dick for the next few days I think it might fall off!” He claps a hand over his mouth as Jon goes even more pink. “Sorry! I—I know you...don't…”

“Oh.” Jon looks halfway between relieved at not having to broach the subject himself, and mortified that Martin knows such personal details about him. “It's not that I  _ don't _ , entirely, it's— How did you…?”

“Oh, uh...office gossip, you know? Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I know you value your privacy.” Jon gives a soft laugh at that.

“After what we went through—what we experienced together, I think we're a bit past being shy about sexual topics, don't you? We...should probably discuss it, all of it, if we're going to—to give this a go?”

He looks at Martin with such a mixture of hope and uncertainty that Martin could cry, because honestly. His love for Jon dragged him back from the Lonely against his best laid plans, despite all his determination to save the world. He told Jon,  _ twice _ , spilled his feelings out in a vulnerable mess, and he doesn't regret it a bit, but how can Jon possibility still question this now? Martin loves this man, but he is utterly ridiculous sometimes.

“I'd love to discuss it all,” he says, plaintively. “But can we do it after a couple more hours of sleep? And then maybe an enormous amount of curry? There's a fantastic Nepalese takeaway just up the street.”

“That...sounds wonderful,” says Jon, and the soft, tired smile on his lips makes Martin's heart sing. 

They retreat to the bedroom and both strip down to underwear far more shyly than is probably warranted. This is different, though. This is them—just them—no Peter, no Leitner induced haze of lust. The marks of knife and belt and whip are starting to heal on Jon's skin already, although the deep wound on his hip where Martin's teeth followed Peter's knife looks as if it might scar. Jon touches the bandage on Martin's back carefully, a little shamefaced.

“We'll have to change this later. And you'll need more antibiotics.” 

“Later,” says Martin, grasping his hands and raising it to kiss the bruised knuckles. 

“What about, uh…” Jon waves a vague hand at Martin's chest, and he glances down at the rings still piercing his nipples. They're a bit sore, now the euphoria has dissipated and the painkillers Peter gave him have worn off, but not too bad. 

“I think I might keep them, actually.” He decides not to ask about the tongue ring for now. 

“They suit you,” says Jon, with a shy smile Martin never expected from him. He uses his grip on Jon's hand to tug him towards the bed and under the duvet. It's neither as large nor as luxurious as Peter's bed, but the two of them can easily curl up together, Jon's head tucked under Martin's chin, his hand tentatively stroking the skin of Martin's side, gentle and warm. Martin feels his eyes growing heavy almost immediately. 

“Martin?” Jon whispers after a few minutes. 

“Yeah?”

“What you, uh...that thing you said. During, and—and after? I...yeah. Me—me too.”

“Idiot,” Martin says fondly. “ I love you, too.” Martin kisses his hair, feels Jon relax entirely against him, and pulls him in closer. This ridiculous man that he loves.

For the first time in a long time, he thinks everything might turn out all right, in the end.


	7. Meanwhile...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering what Elias thinks of all this...

_Meanwhile, at Her Majesty’s pleasure..._

“I like the handcuffs,” Peter says. “Very becoming.” Elias doesn’t reply, just watches him coolly from across the cell. Peter helps himself to a seat. If Elias wants to play this game that’s fine with him. Nobody can stay quiet in company longer than a Lukas. 

The silence stretches out for several minutes, cold and meaningful. Finally, Elias gives a terse little sigh and says “Well?”

“Honestly I think you owe me one,” says Peter. Elias’ eyebrow twitches up minutely. 

“For what, precisely? Half-killing my Archivist with your self-indulgence?” His tone is clipped and precise.

“You’d prefer the Flesh  _ all _ the way killed him?”

“Jon would have been fine,” Elias snaps. 

“You’re sure? The Sacrament of Flesh isn’t a book to fool around with.”

“I’m...reasonably confident,” Elias hedges. “He’s very capable.”

“Well you weren’t there, and you  _ did _ give me authority over all your employees. I made a managerial decision.” Peter pauses, suspicious. “Hang on, that wasn’t you, was it? One of your little tests for the Archivist?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elias snorts. “I could as easily ask if  _ you _ put it there.” He stops, and gives Peter a hard look. 

“It wasn’t me. If I had a copy of that book you’d have known about it a  _ long _ time ago, my dear. Anyway, didn’t you  _ see _ who left it?” Peter wiggles his fingers spookily. Elias’ mouth twists in sour concession.

“I was...distracted at the time, by some events here. Which makes me wonder if the distraction wasn’t planned.”

Elias gets to his feet and starts pacing distractedly, muttering to himself, apparently having forgotten that he’s angry with Peter. His thin hands sketch the air, the handcuffs jingling against his slim wrists. Peter wasn’t joking when he said they were becoming; Elias has always looked lovely when he’s restrained. 

“Don’t get yourself worked up,” says Peter. He stands as well, and walks across to intercept the pacing, grasping Elias’ slender fingers in his large ones. Elias makes only a token attempt to pull away. 

“I am  _ not— _ How can I not be concerned when someone infiltrates my Institute—under your care, I might add—and interferes with my Archivist’s development?”

“How do you think I feel? I lost the best assistant I’ve ever had—not to mention my chance to stop the Extinction.” Elias rolls his eyes at that, ever the skeptic. 

“I’m sure you’ll find another way to prevent the emergence.”

“Hmm, or else your precious Archivist will stop it, right? And get himself another nice scar to go with it?” Elias doesn’t say anything, but he looks a touch more smug. Peter pulls him closer. 

“Speaking of which,” he murmurs, leaning in to speak into Elias’ ear. “I’m sure you saw that I gave Jon a nice memento of our time together. Do you think that will count as his scar from Forsaken?”

“I think you count as  _ my _ scar from Forsaken,” Elias grumbles, and Peter kisses his neck. 

“Don’t be grouchy,” he whispers against Elias’ throat as Elias tips his head back to expose more of his soft skin. “You know, I did take that book from Jon’s office, for safe keeping. If you’d like, I could read you a passage or two. Just enough to be...elucidating.”

He feels Elias’ pulse jump under his lips, and when Peter stands back, faint pink is flushing his high, patrician cheekbones. Elias clears his throat, and Peter smiles.  _ The Sacrament of Flesh _ is dangerous, of course, but he knows plenty about handling dangerous artefacts for his own pleasure; the man before him is one of the most lethal of them. The idea of exposing Elias to it—just a little—is very tempting. 

“Well…” Elias says, gathering himself, and tugging his hands free. “I believe we’ve finished our discussion here. You should be getting back to the Institute—and  _ try _ to keep an eye on things, if you could?”

“That’s your area of expertise,” Peter tells him with a wink. “But I’ll do my best.” He lets himself start to disappear into the fog of Forsaken, knowing when he’s been dismissed, before Elias’ voice reaches him, faint through the haze. 

“Oh, Peter?” He pauses, fades back in for a moment, and gives Elias a quizzical look. 

“Next time...do bring the book. I’d like to have a look at it. For, ah, educational purposes.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Sacrament Of Flesh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21212870) by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess)


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